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I 


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LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 
OF  GEORGE  INNESS 


/ 


0 


GEORGE  INNESS 
(Painted  by  George  Inness,  Jr.) 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 
OF  GEORGE  INNESS 


BY 

GEORGE  INNESS,  Jr. 


ILLUSTRATED  WITH  PORTRAITS  AND 
MANY  REPRODUCTIONS  OF  PAINTINGS 


WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION 
BY  ELLIOTT  DAINGERFIELD 


/ 


NEW  YORK 
THE  CENTURY  CO. 
1917 


Copyright,  1917,  by 
The  Century  Co. 


Published,  October,  1917 


I  DEDICATE  THIS  BOOK  TO 
MY  DEAR  WIFE 

JULIA  GOODRICH  INNESS 

WHO  HAS  FILLED  MY  LIFE  WITH 
HAPPINESS  AND  WHOSE  HELP 
AND  COUNSEL  HAVE  MADE 
THIS  WORK  POSSIBLE 


PREFACE 


What  I  would  like  to  give  you  is  George  Inness; 
as  he  was,  as  he  talked,  as  he  lived — not  what  I  saw 
in  him  or  how  I  interpreted  him,  but  him — and  hav- 
ing given  you  all  I  can  remember  of  what  he  said  and 
did  I  want  you  to  form  your  own  opinion. 

My  story  shall  be  a  simple  rendering  of  facts — as 
I  remember  them;  in  other  words,  I  will  put  the  pig- 
ment on  the  canvas  and  leave  it  to  you  to  form  the 
picture. 

George  Inness,  Jr. 


\ 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 


I  wish  to  acknowledge  the  courtesy  of  the  follow- 
ing persons  and  institutions  who  have  been  of  great 
assistance  in  furnishing  me  with  the  material  for  this 
book:  Mrs.  J.  Scott  Hartley,  Mr.  James  W.  Ells- 
worth, Mr.  Thomas  B.  Clarke,  Mr.  Victor  Harris, 
Mr.  Martin  A.  Ryerson  and  Mr.  Ralph  Cudney ;  The 
Metropolitan  Museum  of  Art  and  M.  Knoedler  & 
Co.,  New  York  City,  The  Art  Institute  of  Chicago. 

I  wish  also  to  make  acknowledgment  of  the  services 
of  my  friend,  Leize  R.  Godwin,  whose  wise  counsel 
has  made  the  task  of  writing  this  book  a  pleasure. 


INTRODUCTION 


Biography  is  always  interesting  when  true,  and 
valuable  in  the  same  degree.  It  takes  on  a  new  char- 
acter when  written  by  oneself  in  the  form  of  mem- 
oirs, yet  is  seldom  fully  successful,  because  of  the  hu- 
man temptation  to  suppress  real  and  interesting 
facts,  or,  when  sufficient  effrontery  or  courage — if  it 
be  courage — exists  to  tell  everything,  the  reader  is 
likely  to  be  offended,  even  if  interested. 

In  this  way  the  memoirs  of  Cellini  might  have  been 
more  valuable,  though  less  interesting,  if  another  had 
set  down  the  truths  of  this  man's  inner  life  and  char- 
acter. It  is  almost,  if  not  quite,  impossible  for  one  to 
analyze  one's  own  soul  and  write  out  for  public  gaze 
the  secrets  hidden  there.  It  shocks  the  sensitive 
spirit  and  creates  a  wound  not  to  be  borne ;  therefore, 
as  it  seems  to  me.  all  biography  treads  the  broad  high- 
way of  external  facts  and  passing  events,  leaving  the 
deep,  still  pools,  which  reflect  all  the  spiritual  and 
emotional  being,  untroubled.  In  this  condition  of 
things  we  must  be  content  with  what  we  can  get,  being 
assured  that  whatever  we  can  preserve  of  the  life  and 

xi 


INTRODUCTION 

impulses  of  a  great  man  will  be  of  value  to  the  world. 

It  does  not  follow  that  intimacy  gives  one  the  privi- 
lege of  interpretation,  but  at  least  it  assures  us  a 
measure  of  truth,  which  increases  its  richness  in  the 
proportion  of  sympathy  brought  to  the  task,  because 
sympathy  begets  insight.  Without  sympathy  vir- 
tually all  observation  is  blind,  and  no  one  quality  in 
man's  nature  is  so  potent  in  removing  the  scales  from 
true  vision. 

We  do  not  know  what  we  should  have  had  if 
George  Inness  had  written  his  own  biography.  Ec- 
centric it  certainly  would  have  been,  with  slight  at- 
tention paid  to  those  externals  which  are  of  interest 
to  the  general  reader;  for  he  was  the  most  impersonal 
of  men.  He  was  never  interested  in  himself  as  a 
man,  though  he  was  interested  in  the  artistic  man. 
He  believed  in  himself  as  an  artist  very  profoundly, 
and  his  mind,  which  was  most  alert,  was  ever  delv- 
ing into  or  solving  problems  connected  with  what  he 
called  the  principles  of  painting.  Of  this  sort  of 
thing  we  should  have  had  a  great  deal,  more  indeed 
than  any  of  us  could  have  understood,  because  he  was 
not  always  coherent.  To  himself  his  reasoning  was 
very  clear;  indeed,  he  valued  the  results  of  these  men- 
tal debates  greatly,  many  times  writing  them  down. 
What  has  become  of  these  writings  I  do  not  know, 
but  no  doubt  they  were  written  in  such  a  vagrant,  dis- 

xii 


INTRODUCTION 

jointed  way  that  they  could  not  be  pieced  together  by 
another. 

In  speech  his  vocabulary  was  rapid,  extensive,  ex- 
treme, not  always  well  chosen  as  to  meaning;  but, 
when  supplied  with  gesture  and  expression,  words 
took  on  new  meanings,  and  for  the  time  were  under- 
standable. If  reported  verbatim,  they  would  have 
failed  of  meaning.  Just  how  they  would  have  ap- 
peared in  any  biography  I  do  not  know,  for  cold  type 
is  ever  a  cruel  critic. 

He  once  expounded  to  me  what  he  called  the  ascent 
of  a  fleck  of  soot  to  the  pure  diamond  by  the  vortexical 
progress,  and  proved,  to  himself  at  least,  divinity. 
Frankly,  I  could  not  follow  either  the  thought  or  the 
reasoning,  though  it  seemed  intensely  interesting, 
and  I  begged  him  to  write  it  down.  He  said  that  he 
had  spent  the  night  doing  so,  but  I  have  never  heard 
of  the  writing^  and  inquiry  did  not  reveal  it.  During 
the  delivery  of  this  exegesis  his  declamation  was  flam- 
ing, very  fierce,  and  assured.  His  eyes  sparkled,  and 
his  mane-like  hair  was  tossed  about,  and  hands  were 
as  vigorously  in  motion  as  possible,  the  whole  manner 
commanding  attention;  but  once  completed,  once 
fully  told,  the  fever  passed,  and  he  was  silent  and  very 
quiet.  After  such  struggles  he  returned  to  his  paint- 
ing with  new  spirit  and  new  insight,  and  always  one 
could  see  the  growth  in  power  in  the  work.  Who 

xiii 


INTRODUCTION 

shall  say  what  he  saw  within  himself,  what  new  realms 
or  wide  horizons  were  opened  to  his  vision? 

He  was  a  man  of  great  energy,  and  with  no  great 
amount  of  strength  otherwise,  and  always  he  drove 
himself  to  the  utmost.  His  best  work  was  ever  ac- 
complished at  white  heat  and  under  great  emotion. 
Watching  him  closely,  I  many  times  saw  him  at  work 
with  cold  calculation,  but  without  exception  these  pic- 
tures endured  only  for  a  time,  and  were  repainted 
when  the  fever  was  upon  him.  It  was  this  consuming 
energy  which  burned  up  his  vitality  and  brought  his 
end.  There  was  no  other  reason,  no  disease  or  insist- 
ent illness  sapping  away  his  life,  but  rather  a  burning 
up.  Many  canvases  which  have  come  down  to  us  in 
their  beauty  and  glowing  glory  cost  him  days  of  ex- 
quisite agony,  so  that  we  may  truly  say  of  them  that 
they  were  painted  with  heart's  blood. 

In  his  mind  there  was  no  particle  of  that  quality 
which  we  have  come  to  know  as  modern  art.  His 
own  was  cast  in  those  channels  the  canons  of  which 
have  been  written  in  all  ages  by  those  great  men 
whose  genius  has  made  their  work  endure.  He  knew 
that  fashion  in  art  is  a  theory  and  a  vain  bubble,  of  no 
account  to  those  who  blow  it  or  those  who  think  its 
colors  of  worth.  During  his  working  days  there 
were  as  many  isms  abroad  as  there  are  to-day,  but  he 
would  have  none  of  them,  realizing  keenly,  as  most 

xiv 


INTRODUCTION 

thoughtful  men  do,  that  their  lure  is  rather  to  the  man 
who  has  no  power  of  thought,  of  invention  within 
himself;  that  it  is  not,  and,  in  its  own  nature,  cannot 
be  born  of  sincerity.  Here  alone  is  the  rock  upon 
which  the  true  artist  ever  takes  his  stand. 

Our  study  of  the  great  work  of  George  Inness 
easily  discovers  its  sincerity.  It  matters  not  if  we 
are  looking  at  the  careful  studies  of  early  days  or  the 
more  synthetic  canvases  of  the  last  years,  we  read  in 
them  all  knowledge.  How  like  the  name  of  a  god 
the  word  comes  in  the  midst  of  work  based  on  crudity ! 
To  Inness  it  was  an  essential  thing,  and  always  be- 
hind the  consciousness  of  knowledge  was  nature. 

In  those  works  which  express  the  man's  message, 
there  is  never  a  servile  copying  of  place  or  thing ;  yet 
both  are  in  place,  both  fully  understood,  and  the 
beauty  of  the  nature  he  wishes  us  to  see  is  fully  re- 
vealed— revealed,  too,  in  George  Inness's  way.  And 
that  again  is  one  of  the  beauties  of  great  landscape  art 
— any  art,  for  that  matter,  which  claims  to  be  fine 
art — it  is  always  plus  the  man. 

There  is  little  gain  for  art  in  the  exquisite  copying 
of  things.  Many  have  tried  it,  many  have  spent  long 
hours  and  days  in  servile  reproduction,  and  begotten 
in  the  end  an  emptiness,  a  thing  which  has  the  same 
relation  to  art  that  an  inanimate  has  to  an  animate 
creature ;  but  in  the  study  which  produces  understand- 

xv 


INTRODUCTION 
ing,  in  the  loving  observation  which  teaches,  in  the  ab- 
sorption of  idea— in  such  ways  men  acquire  the 
knowledge  which  gives  them  expression,  which  per- 
mits them,  within  the  silence  of  four  blank  walls,  to 
see  visions  and  to  give  gifts  to  men.  It  is  through 
such  works  that  we  know  and  love  the  great  men,  and 
through  such  works  that  they  uplift  humanity  and 
better  civilization.  They  left  for  us  a  curtain,  and 
eyes  which  have  been  dull  before  are  illumined.  A 
great  work,  indeed! 

It  is  because  of  this  great  inner  vision  that  George 
Inness  must  take  rank  among  the  greatest  landscape- 
painters,  almost,  we  might  say,  himself  the  greatest 
of  all,  but  for  that  American  objection  to  the  claims 
of  any  man  in  any  walk  of  life  to  being  acclaimed 
greatest. 

Yet  a  measure  of  his  work  is  being  taken  by  the 
passing  years,  and  we  begin  to  see  what  a  genius  has 
dwelt  among  us.  No  matter  the  carping  voice  of 
critic,  no  matter  the  contempt  of  little  painters  of 
painted  things,  this  was  his  towering  gift  to  us— this 
power  to  present  the  essence  of  things.  Consider, 
the  greatest  of  his  pictures  were  painted  out  of  what 
people  fondly  call  his  imagination,  his  memory- 
painted  within  the  four  walls  of  a  room,  away  from 
and  without  reference  to  any  particular  nature;  for 
he  himself  was  nature.    And  it  is  not  alone  the  beauty 

xvi 


INTRODUCTION 

of  a  great  elm  against  a  sunlit  sky,  it  is  not  merely  the 
chase  of  storm-driven  clouds,  it  is  not  only  the  crash 
and  thunder  of  mighty  seas  against  the  rock-ribbed 
shores  of  a  continent,  not  morning,  noon,  or  night; 
not  one,  but  all  were  his,  and  all  are  George 
Inness. 

His  versatility  was  enormous;  the  glow  of  it 
wrapped  about  him  like  a  flame.  His  eyes  burned 
like  fire  when  in  coal  and  red-hot;  he  looked  through 
the  blank  canvas,  through  the  besmeared  paint, 
through  the  days  and  hours  of  work,  to  that  vision 
which  was  within  himself,  and  that  alone  was  his  goal, 
and  no  likeness  of  any  place  or  thing  tempted  him 
aside.  The  impetuosity  of  it  as  he  approached  the 
goal  was  like  a  storm,  and  to  any  but  an  understand- 
ing eye  the  process  was  as  devastating  as  a  storm;  but 
high  above  the  trammels  of  technic,  of  form,  of  color, 
or  pigment,  his  soul,  eagle-like,  soared  to  its  aery,  and 
the  vision,  wide  of  horizon,  perfect  in  all  its  parts, 
was  complete.  Men  do  not  paint  so  who  have  not  the 
immortal  spark.  Tiresome  drones  who  do  their  lit- 
tle, and  delude  themselves — how  easily  are  they 
scorched  in  such  a  fire!  Fire  it  was,  but  not  always 
alight.  No  man  had  deeper  moods  of  despondency, 
no  man  suffered  more  deeply  under  bafHed  aims,  no 
man  more  ruthlessly  destroyed  in  order  to  make  new, 
than  this  painter;  but  like  a  grim  warrior,  against 

xvii 


INTRODUCTION 

whose  striving  the  battle  has  gone  badly,  he  would 
say,  "I  '11  do  it  to-morrow."  The  splendor  of  this 
courage  never  left  him.  To  the  last  he  knew  and  be- 
lieved in  his  own  gift,  and  seldom  did  it  fail  him. 
Time  alone  was  needed,  and  the  beautiful  thing  was 
sure  of  birth. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  he  died  when  his  powers 
were  at  their  full;  he  would  not  have  been  content  to 
linger  if  they  had  waned,  and  he  would  have  been 
keenly  aware  of  it. 

Elsewhere  I  have  tried  to  show  that  there  was 
change:  the  early,  exact,  careful  analysis;  the  mid- 
dle, broader,  fuller,  more  colored  period;  and  the 
latest,  synthetic  style,  which  includes  so  many  of 
his  beautiful  works.  But  always  the  power  was 
there. 

It  is  perhaps  interesting  to  note  the  difference  in 
the  artist  who  works  in  the  way  that  I  have  here  tried 
to  indicate  and  in  that  more  exact  copyist,  who,  strong 
only  in  his  eyes,  and  depending  always  upon  them, 
grows  blind  and  weak  at  the  last.  His  is  never  the 
glory  of  departing  in  flame,  like  some  grand  old  vik- 
ing, who  seeks  his  rest  in  the  burning  hour  of  inspira- 
tion. 

A  painter  critic  has  spoken  of  Mr.  Inness's  technic 
as  being  "empirical."  By  technic  he  refers  to  the 
method  of  using  his  pigment  to  produce  result.  Such 

xviii 


INTRODUCTION 

an  opinion  is  largely  the  voice  of  the  schoolman,  of 
one  who  in  the  schools  was  taught  the  precise  method 
of  mixing  tints  and  conveying  them  to  the  canvas, 
each  tint  to  represent  a  certain  plane  or  value  in  the 
form.  One  does  not  want  to  quarrel  with  the  schools, 
for  their  place  and  usefulness  is  clear,  but  it  is  quite 
possible  to  say  that  the  student  who  stops  with  what 
he  gains  in  a  school  does  not  go  far.  If  he  does  not 
pursue,  investigate,  and  experiment,  he  will  never  dis- 
cover, and  discovery  is  essential  to  any  personal  tech- 
nical expression;  and  such  development,  when  suc- 
cessful, is  apt  to  reveal  not  only  the  painter,  but  the 
artist.  Also,  one  must  be  able  to  control  this  result 
of  experiment  until  it  becomes  a  servant,  willing, 
plastic,  ready  at  all  times  to  the  guiding  will.  This 
was  colossally  sb  with  George  Inness,  and  his  technical 
power  was  so  superior  to  what  the  intellectual  school- 
men accomplish  that  his  work  burns  with  the  fire  of 
genius  and  inspiration.  He  himself  believed  that  his 
method  was  intensely  scientific.  Certainly  the  proof 
lies  in  his  work.  If  there  were  times  when  it  seemed 
to  fail  him,  times  when  change  and  repainting  were 
necessary,  it  may  not  rest  a  charge  against  the  clarity 
of  his  method.  Much  goes  into  the  use  of  pigment 
other  than  brush-work.  An  over-strained  nervous 
system,  a  stomach  out  of  order,  a  voice  which  persists 
will  untune  the  finer  forces  and  render  a  day's  work 

xix 


INTRODUCTION 

wholly  abortive;  the  humming  of  a  fly  or  bee  has 
robbed  many  a  sensitive  artist  of  his  day's  result. 

Inness  knew  truths  of  color  that  I  have  never 
known  any  one  else  even  to  glimpse.  He  knew  great 
principles  of  color  application  which  lesser  men  could 
not  grasp.  He  had  no  interest  in  details  of  color  or 
in  small,  attentuated  tints.  His  was  the  power  of 
mass,  the  authority  of  tone  upon  tone,  the  concen- 
tration of  a  tone  in  its  base  color,  which  lured  you  into 
consciousness  of  its  presence.  In  another  it  would 
have  been  inconceivably  dull  and  stagnant.  For 
these  reasons  and  more  I  believe  he  not  only  had  a 
masterly  technic,  but  I  believe  it  more  nearly  equaled 
the  strength  and  understanding  of  the  great  masters 
than  any  of  our  men  have  attained.  He  is  certainly 
not  like  any  one  of  the  great  galaxy;  you  may  find 
kinship  of  energy  and  dynamic  force  in  Tintoretto 
more  than  another.  He  was  fond  of  thinking  it  was 
Titian  he  most  resembled,  and  the  spiritist  mediums, 
finding  this  out,  were  forever  telling  him  that  Titian 
stood  at  his  elbow.  The  impetuosity  of  Tintoretto 
was  fully  reflected  in  Inness:  his  swiftness  in  composi- 
tion, his  ease  of  expression  with  the  brush  in  great 
masses  without  previous  outlines  reflects,  also,  some 
of  the  great  Italian's  characteristics,  and  each  had  the 
capacity  for  holding  the  wild,  splendid  force  in  leash 
until  great  tenderness  was  achieved.    To  say,  then, 

XX 


INTRODUCTION 

that  his  technic  was  anything  but  suitable  is  to  mis- 
state, and  to  misunderstand  the  man. 

Among  the  younger  painters  of  the  day  it  is  a 
habit  to  speak  slightingly  of  Mr.  Inness  and  his 
method  of  work.  They  say  his  technic  was  fumbling, 
uncertain,  glazy,  and  lacking  in  directness;  that  he 
could  not  paint  frankly  or  directly;  that  his  effects 
were  rather  matters  of  chance  than  anything  else. 
Oh,  the  wisdom  of  youth — youth  whose  smallest  ut- 
terance is  axiomatic!  Have  they  ever  seriously 
looked  upon  the  "Gray,  Lowery  Day,"  a  canvas 
painted  rapidly,  with  no  hint  of  glaze  or  fumble,  a 
canvas  in  which  the  goal  is  reached  with  the  pre- 
cision of  the  great  master?  And  such  a  goal!  Here 
is  no  simple  sketch  of  uninteresting  objects,  but  a 
mood  of  nature  so  subtle  that  thought  of  it  even  is 
intangible  and  enveloped  within  intricacies  of  form 
so  elaborate  that  the  rendering  of  them  under  most 
passive  conditions  would  tax  the  powers  of  any  tech- 
nician; and  yet  this  envelop  of  moist,  rainy  atmos- 
phere is  rendered  with  a  direct  touch,  a  transfer  of 
pigment  to  canvas  as  direct  and  exact  as  a  Franz 
Hals  or  a  John  Sargent,  both  the  gods  of  direct  paint- 
ing; and  in  the  finished  result  Mr.  Inness  has  pro- 
duced a  work  of  unity  and  pure  beauty,  enough  in  it- 
self to  proclaim  him  a  world  master. 

Or,  again,  may  I  direct  the  attention  of  these  im- 

xxi 


INTRODUCTION 

mature  artists  to  that  other  well-known  work  and 
very  noble  example  of  direct  painting,  the  "Summer 
Foliage,"  a  picture  in  which  the  difficulties  were  enor- 
mous and  the  details  most  elaborate,  involving,  also, 
a  control  over  greens,  which  is  a  most  trying  color  to 
manage,  and  the  brush  of  George  Inness  moves  with 
a  sanity  and  joy  that  is  fair  necromancy?  No  jug- 
gler could  have  handled  his  material  with  more  alert- 
ness and  conviction,  and  there  has  never  for  an  in- 
stant been  the  loss  of  the  central  vision  of  beauty. 
This  was  the  creed  of  George  Inness — beauty. 
Translated  into  all  its  forms,  loved  as  spirit,  religion, 
God,  this  he  searched  daily,  hourly,  and  worshiped. 

Could  he  have  had  an  early  intellectual,  even  scien- 
tific, training,  he  would  have  reached  tremendous 
heights  intellectually,  for  his  mind  was  that  of  an  in- 
vestigator. If  to-day  the  things  we  read  of  his  are  in- 
coherent, they  are  so  rather  in  form  than  substance. 
A  careful  analysis  will  discover  the  true  center,  the 
germ  truth  which  he  wished  to  convey,  and  nearly  al- 
ways it  is  a  vision,  a  creation  of  an  intense,  yearning 
spirit.  Intense,  eager,  often  abandoned  in  his  speech, 
there  was  the  glow  of  idea  behind  all  his  thought ;  and 
however  abstruse  the  theme,  he  carried  it  back  with 
unerring  persistence  to  his  work.  There,  he  knew, 
was  his  chief  hope  of  expression. 

Does  it  matter  if  untrained  minds  can  not  read 

xxii 


INTRODUCTION 

these  things  in  his  works?  Does  it  matter  if  a  large 
element  of  the  general  public,  or  even  the  artistic 
public,  shall  say  these  things  are  purely  imaginary,  no 
picture  can  contain  such  things,  it  is  merely  what  it 
appears  to  be,  and  that  ends  it?  The  answer  is, 
George  Inness  did  not  trouble  himself  to  paint  for 
this  public.  First  and  foremost,  he,  the  artist,  not 
the  man,  was  to  be  satisfied;  he  must  be  able  to  dis- 
cern in  the  work  that  significance  he  sought  to  hand 
on,  and  when  he  found  it  in  his  picture,  that  moment 
the  canvas  was  finished.  Finished  then  for  him  was 
expression.  Try  him  by  no  other  laws.  Complain 
not  of  roughness  or  smoothness,  cavil  not  at  incom- 
plete or  imperfectly  rendered  forms,  at  blemishes,  or 
scratches,  or  unexplained  spots.  These  may  all  be 
present,  but  behind  all  is  the  man,  and  his  vision 
freely  given  and  freely  expressed.  If  we  cannot  see, 
the  fault  lies  in  ourselves. 

Just  as  truly  all  these  things  may  be  said  of  any 
of  the  masters:  of  Corot  less  perhaps  than  of  Rous- 
seau; of  Dupre  more  than  of  Millet;  of  Velasquez; 
of  Hals;  of  everybody  who  has  been  remembered  in 
the  great  mill-race  flood  of  painters  through  the  ages. 
Few,  alas!  can  grapple  with  the  mighty  forces  under- 
lying a  great  work ;  but  none  surely  may  be  frivolous 
or  contemptuous  in  its  presence,  unless,  indeed,  he  be 

xxiii 


INTRODUCTION 

a  Post-impressionist  or  Futurist.  But,  then,  I  am 
speaking  of  human  beings. 

Can  any  sane  man,  however  untrained,  go  into  the 
presence  of  the  great  portrait  of  Innocent  X  by- 
Velasquez  and  remain  unmoved?  Can  any  man  of 
even  partial  culture  remain  unmoved  in  the  presence 
of  the  great  "Moonlight"  recently  shown  by  George 
Inness?  These  are  of  the  essence  of  greatness,  and 
it  is  this  essence  which  George  Inness  distilled  in  the 
long  years  of  his  labor,  until  in  the  end  the  roll  of  his 
great  achievements  was  very  long. 

He  often  wished  that  he  might  be  privileged  to 
paint  only  one  truly  great  work.  Perhaps,  in  those 
halls  where  gather  the  great  of  all  times  and  ages  and 
peoples  he  has  been  welcomed  with  this  assurance. 
That  might  well  be  heaven  indeed  to  so  striving  a 
soul. 

Mr.  Inness  was  most  happily  fortunate  in  his  mar- 
riage. To  one  of  his  impetuous,  easily  ruffled  nature 
the  lack  of  sympathy  in  his  wife  would  have  been. a 
constant  irritation  and  impediment  to  his  progress; 
but  his  wife  was  sensitive  to  his  every  mood,  careful 
of  his  needs,  keenly  alive  to  his  hopes  in  his  work,  and 
to  the  last  hour  of  his  life  his  comfort  and  his  friend. 
That  last  cry  at  the  Bridge-of- Allan,  when  he  knew 
the  final  moment  had  come,  was  not  to  God  or  man. 

xx  iv 


INTRODUCTION 

"Take  me  to  my  wife,"  he  said.  She  was  then  his 
refuge  and  his  strength,  and  we,  who  have  had  so 
much  from  him,  must  remember  her,  with  fullest 
gratitude. 

You  will  search  far  in  his  work  to  find  an  insincere 
canvas  or  an  irreverent  one.  If  there  were  times 
when  he  painted  the  uncongenial  thing  because  it  was 
ordered,  it  was  done  that  he  might  be  free  to  pursue 
those  beacons  which  ever  burned  ahead  of  him. 

No  man  ever  had  a  more  bitter  tongue  for  the  thing 
which  was  untrue  in  art — "a  sham,"  as  he  called  it. 
No  man  could  scold  with  sterner  rebuke,  and 
none  was  more  generous  in  praise  when  it  was  de- 
served. \ 

If  we  are  to  estimate  him  correctly  or  fully,  we 
must  see  clearly  and  bring  together  all  these  quali- 
ties, and  then  only  may  we  discover  the  true  worth  of 
his  work. 

It  is  not  enough  to  say,  "That 's  a  fine  thing,"  of  a 
work  which  contains  so  much.  It  is  not  enough  to 
pass  it  with  a  slight  comment,  as  we  see  so  frequently 
done  by  our  critics.  A  great  work  merits  great  at- 
tention and  deep  consideration,  and  it  is  necessary  to 
bring  to  such  consideration  ripe  understanding.  Also 
preconceived  bias  warps  judgment.  Mr.  Inness  was 
not  always  a  good  critic;  his  own  thoughts  dominated 
him,  forced  him  to  see  things  in  his  own  way;  and  to 

XXV 


INTRODUCTION 

yield  to  him  palette  and  brushes  was  to  unfold  speed- 
ily not  a  criticism,  but  an  Inness.  Perhaps  this 
should  be  so,  as  a  strong  personality  should  not  give 
up  its  own;  but  one  would  look  elsewhere  for  criticism. 
For  such  reasons,  no  doubt,  Mr.  Inness  had  no  pu- 
pils. He  had  from  time  to  time  certain  men  near 
him,  but  with  him  to  teach  meant  to  control. 

I  have  always  been  glad  that  he  was  so  violent.  It 
is  better  to  swallow  one's  spleen  and  learn  than  to 
chew  the  rag  of  discontent. 

Nowhere  in  his  work  will  be  found  any  picture  with 
likeness  to  the  art  of  another;  they  are  his  own, 
warp  and  woof,  and  no  shred  of  anybody  else  creeps 
in,  and  this  despite  his  avowed  admiration  for  many 
others.  Time  after  time  I 've  heard  him  say  of  some 
finished  thing,  when  his  enthusiasm  was  ripe,  "It 's 
like  a  Claude,"  or  a  "Turner,"  and  then  slyly,  "but 
it's  more  like  an  Inness."  For  Claude  and  for 
Turner  he  had  great  admiration,  but  also  ready 
criticism.  He  was  hostile  to  anything  that  was 
"niggled."  Breadth  was  essential,  and  for  this  qual- 
ity many  of  his  own  works  were  obliterated,  but  his 
relentless  courage  brought  the  great  work  to  comple- 
tion in  time. 

Much  has  been  written  of  him  as  artist  and  man, 
much  that  savors  merely  of  the  reporter's  comments, 
and  some  things  so  vague  and  wordy  that  nothing  of 

xxvi 


INTRODUCTION 

an  image  remains.  I,  myself,  have  tried  to  set  down 
in  various  places  and  ways  my  impressions  gained  in 
many  years  of  close  association,  but  I  am  aware  of 
the  futility  of  recreation.  He  has  gone,  and  the  wis- 
est and  best  way  to  know  George  Inness  is  to  sit  before 
his  works,  to  search  them  to  their  depths,  to  study 
each  item  of  composition,  its  bearing  upon  the  great 
mass,  to  find,  if  one  may,  the  law  by  which  he  con- 
structed his  proportions  and  placements,  to  discover 
the  reasons  for  color  or  tone  choice,  or  that  deeper 
significance,  the  impulse,  artistic  and  religious,  which 
created  it.  So  we  will  come  into  closer  touch  with 
his  great  genius,  so  we  will  live  with  his  spirit,  and 
presently  be  able  to  understand  why  he  should  be  ac- 
corded that  high  place  in  landscape  art  which  is  sec- 
ond to  none,  more  dynamic  than  many,  intenser  than 
all,  true  as  the  best,  and  with  a  musical  chord  in  his 
color  that  has  never  been  approached. 

In  the  work  before  us  his  son,  an  artist  of  rich  at- 
tainments, has  given  us  a  picture  of  his  father,  the 
man  and  his  habits,  and  with  this  has  told  to  us,  in  in- 
cident and  story,  many  of  them  new  to  me  as  they 
will  be  to  the  public,  all  reflecting  most  clearly  the  in- 
genuous nature  of  his  father.  With  this  he  has  com- 
bined letters  and  opinions  of  great  value,  the  letters 
being  tender,  sweet  chords  from  that  melody  of  per- 
fect love  which  existed  between  the  master  and  his 

xxvii 


INTRODUCTION 

wife,  full  of  the  faith  and  trust  which  made  her  pres- 
ence his  inspiration.  In  the  writings,  some  of  a 
purely  scientific  nature,  it  is  necessary  to  acquaint 
oneself  with  his  point  of  view,  his  trend  of  thought; 
once  this  is  secured,  the  reasoning  clarifies  and  be- 
comes of  greatest  value. 

At  a  moment  in  our  art  when  the  young  people 
and  many  of  the  public  are  being  hoodwinked  and 
blinded  by  the  follies  which  followed  the  first  on- 
slaught of  Impressionism,  like  a  procession  of  harle- 
quins, gnomes,  misshapen  and  weird  things,  the  opin- 
ion of  George  Inness  is  worth  study  and  reflection. 
His  was  not  a  sight  to  be  blinded  by  an  eccentricity, 
his  was  not  an  experience  to  be  misled,  nor  could  he 
believe  the  message  of  the  masters  was  to  be  ignored ; 
therefore,  brief  as  they  are,  and  I  would  that  the 
"mountains  of  writings"  Mr.  Inness  often  referred 
to  had  been  given  us  entire,  their  value  is  ex- 
treme. 

The  picture  is  very  clear;  the  man  revisits  us,  and 
the  wizardry  of  his  work  is  our  precious  possession. 

Time,  inexorable  and  vast,  passes  along  the  way; 
he  reaps  here  and  he  reaps  there,  and  the  reapings  fall 
and  wither,  but  ever  he  stops  with  each  passing  year 
to  lay  a  fresh  leaf  of  imperishable  laurel  upon  the 
calm  brow  of  him  who  lives  forever. 

Elliott  Daingerfield. 
xxviii 


\ 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I   Boyhood  and  Youth     .    .    .    v    .    .    .  3 

Birth  and  early  life.  Opposition  of  his  family  to  Art. 
Grocery  store  episode.  Early  aspiration.  First  in- 
structions.   Ogden  Haggerty. 

II   Early  Influences    .     .     .     .    ..     .     .     .,  20 

Religious  thought.  Courtship  and  marriage.  First 
trip  to  Europe.  Influence  of  Old  Masters.  Financial 
struggles.    Williams  and  Everett. 

Ill    Medfeeld  \Period  .     .     .;    r„    w   m    w    w    r.  36 
Family  life.    Development  of  Art. 


IV    Medfield  Period  II  .     .     .     .    m   «  w    >:  48 
Tom  Barney.    The  diamond  necklace. 

V    The  Eagleswood  Period     .     .    .     .  .     .  58 

Spiritual  unfolding.    William  Page  and  the  teaching 

of  Swedenborg.    Religious  theories.    Brooklyn.  Elec- 
tion to  Academy  of  Design. 

VI    Foreign  Influence  .     ....     .  .  .75 

Rome.    Contempt  for  commercialism  in  Art.  Paris. 


Return  to  America.    Mr.  Maynard's  dinner.    Doll  and 
Richards. 

VII    New  York      .    .     .    .    ......  96 

Development    of    style.    Financial    stress.  Poems. 
Wife's  influence.  Generosity. 

VIII   New  York  II  117 

Theories  and  manner  of  painting.    The  building  of  a 
picture.    J.  G.  Brown.    "The  Lost  Sheep." 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTEB  PAGE 

IX  Letters   14>8 

"The  Old  Man."    Enthusiasm  for  figure  painting.  Im- 
pressionism. 

X  Success  and  Recognition     .    .    ...    .    .    *  177 

Montclair.  The  Famous  Niagara.  Benjamin  Con- 
stant. Thomas  B.  Clark.  Prosperity.  Writing  and 
Spiritual  Research.    The  Photographer. 

XI   The  Passing  of  George  Inness  .    m    •    m   <*  209 

XH   The  Art  of  George  Inness  .    M   m   ...   ...    .  226 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

George  Inness  .    .    .    .    .        M   >    w  Frontispiece 


George  Inness,  Jr. 

im 

[•j 

{•j 

[.1 

5 

16 

A  Water-Color  Drawing  of  Trees 

[• 

t*i 

LM 

E«J 

CM 

m 

31 

Light  Triumphant     .     .  (. 

!• 

t«j 

i« 

;• 

em 

[•i 

87 

Medneld  Meadows     .    ;.  lt 

em 

EM 

E« 

em 

:• 

44 

Evening  at  Medfield  .     .  :. 

[•> 

t>: 

OBJ 

t« 

LM 

[•. 

50 

Some  Family  Portraits    .  t. 

M 

1*1 

i»j 

K3 

em 

1«. 

I*; 

59 

Peace  and  Plenty  .     .  . 

r» 

i»: 

t*i 

t» 

!•: 

;• 

65 

The  Delaware  Valley  .  . 

L«) 

10; 

w 

EM 

cm 

LM 

1*1 

72 

The  Cat  skill  Mountains  ...  . 

(•j 

r«i 

r»", 

cm 

w 

EM 

77 

Olive  Trees  at  Tivoli  .     .  . 

r» 

c»j 

LM 

LM 

m 

83 

Barbarini  Pines  . 

em 

em 

[• 

EM 

EM 

90 

Old  Apple  Trees  .  f, 

[•! 

e»< 

[•i 

EM 

EM 

EM 

99 

The  Green  Hillside     .     .  . 

• 

em 

em 

[•: 

EM 

EM 

109 

Twilight  After  the  Shower  . 

*• ' 

em 

F»l 

116 

The  Spring  Blossoms  .    .  t. 

:• 

r«. 

r* 

[•3 

EM 

1*1 

Autumn  Morning      .  s. 

"•' 

i»" 

EM 

LM 

EM 

:• 

127 

Dawn  .     .     .    .     .     .  .. 

l«'J 

EM 

OH 

r«: 

l» 

134 

Summer  Silence    .     .    ,.,  , 

••1 

m 

em 

143 

Midsummer     .    r«          .  < 

r» ' 

[• 

w 

• 

153 

The  Old  Veteran 

160 

ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAOS 


Early  Morning— Tarpon  Springs    .    .    .    ...   t.    .  165 

Georgia  Pines      .«    .   171 

Niagara  Falls  .....     .     •     •     •     •  182 

Home  at  Montclair    .    .    .    .    .    m    •    •    •    >•  W 

Indian  Summer    .    >.    >    •    •    w   w    •    •    •  '<• 
Threatening  w    ;.    m    m        w    w    w    «•>    w    m    <•  2^4< 
The  Bathers  .    .    f.    M        w   n    •    w    •    •    •  213 
The  Hay  Field    .    «    w   m   w    .    m    *    *    ...    i-  ^8 
Autumn  Oaks      m    r»i    w    n    •    w    w    w  •  229 

The  Greenwood  ..   w   M   «   em    •    •    w    •    •  ' 
Etratet     .    .    r.    »    .    •    «   w    •    •    •    *   ■•  24i2 
Shower  on  the  Delaware  River  ..  ...   w    •  • 

The  Mill  Pond     ,    .    .    .    >    ...    -    .    ...  25? 

Moonlight  on  Passamaquoddy  Bay  .  .  w  •  <•  26*8 
The  Trout  Brook  .    .    .     .    .    •    •    >    •    •    •  270 

Moon  Rise  279 

Under  the  Greenwood     .    ...   w   i  285 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS  OF, 
GEORGE  INNESS 


"Let  us  believe  in  Art,  not  as  something  to  gratify 
curiosity  or  suit  commercial  ends,  but  something  to  be  loved 
and  cherished  because  it  is  the  Handmaid  of  the  Spiritual 
Life  of  the  age." 

1  George  Inness 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 
OF  GEORGE  INNESS 


In  my  eyes  he  was  a  hero,  a  wizard,  for  there  stood 
the  tub, — it  was  a  round  one  of  white  pine,  bound  with 
three  brass  hoops,  and  it  had  handles  opposite  each 
other  that  stood  up  above  the  sides, — and  suddenly 
it  began  to  assume  another  color,  a  green  vivid  enough 
to  charm  the  soul  of  any  child.  The  odor  of  oil  and 
turpentine  is  still  in  my  nostrils,  and  in  my  long  ex- 
perience of  oil  and  turpentine,  covering  a  period  of 
more  than  fifty  years,  I  have  never  since  encountered 
just  the  same  odor.  I  have  watched  many  painters 
paint  tubs,  houses,  wagons,  and  other  things  since 
then,  but  never  have  I  seen  a  painter  do  it  in  quite 
the  same  way. 

Pop — I  always  called  him  Pop — drew  the  brush 

S 


CHAPTER  I 


BOYHOOD  AND  YOUTH 


Y  j  first  recollection  of  my  father  was 
watching  him  paint  a  wash-tub,  and  the 
impression  then  made  has  never  left  me. 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

along  the  tub,  leaving  a  long  green  streak;  then  he 
stepped  back  several  paces  and  held  his  hand  above 
his  eyes  and  looked  at  the  effect,  a  gesture  and  a  posi- 
tion that  were  characteristic  of  my  father  through- 
out his  life.  This  was  repeated  after  every  few 
strokes  of  the  brush  until  the  whole  was  complete,  and 
there  stood  the  tub  in  all  its  glory  of  green.  It  was 
so  beautiful  that  I  was  almost  frightened.  Pop  took 
me  by  the  hand  and  led  me  from  the  room.  From 
that  time  until  we  moved  to  the  country,  Medfield, 
Massachusetts,  most  of  my  memory  seems  to  be  a 
blank. 

But  before  going  into  the  Medfield  period,  which 
was  one  of  the  most  important  in  my  father's  life,  I 
want  to  go  back  and  trace  the  early  steps  that  led  up 
to  the  achievements  of  those  maturer  years  in  Massa- 
chusetts. 

Much  has  been  written  to  give  the  impression  that 
my  father  sprang  from  poor  and  humble  folk,  and 
that,  like  Benjamin  West,  the  one-time  president  of 
the  Royal  Academy,  and  others,  he  had  to  resort  to 
such  measures  as  cutting  off  the  cat's  tail  to  obtain  a 
paint-brush,  and  use  the  juice  of  huckleberry-pie  and 
raspberry  jam  for  colors  with  which  to  paint  his  mas- 
terpieces. Such  things  teach  a  fine  moral  for  the 
school  reader,  but  the  obstacles  with  which  my  father 
had  to  contend  in  his  early  life  were  not  financial  ones. 

i 


GEORGE  INNESS,  JR. 


BOYHOOD  AND  YOUTH 

His  parents  were  well-to-do  people  and  for  the  time 
in  which  they  lived  were  considered  rich. 

My  grandfather  was  a  prosperous  merchant  of 
Scotch  descent.  He  was  energetic  and  thrifty  and 
was  ambitious  for  his  children's  success.  Having 
made  his  fortune  early  in  life  he  retired  from  active 
business  and  bought  a  farm  near  Newburg,  New 
York,  more,  I  fancy,  for  recreation  than  for  profit. 
It  was  there  on  May  1,  1825,  that  George  Inness  was 
born.  He  was  the  fifth  of  thirteen  children.  All  his 
brothers  entered  mercantile  life  and  became  very 
successful  business  men. 

When  George  was  only  a  few  months  old,  and  be- 
fore the  time  of  Hudson  River  boats,  the  elder  In- 
ness moved  his  family  to  New  York  in  an  antiquated 
vessel  of  some  sort.  George,  being  an  infant,  was 
laid  in  a  basket  so  that  the  perilous  journey  might  be 
more  comfortably  made. 

Four  years  later  they  moved  to  Newark,  New 
J ersey,  where  my  father's  boyhood  was  spent.  New- 
ark was  then  a  little  country  town,  and  the  Inness 
residence  was  on  top  of  a  high  hill  overlooking  rich 
farm  lands.  Later  this  land  was  laid  out  in  streets. 
My  grandfather's  house  stood  where  High  Street  and 
Nesbit  Street,  now  Central  Avenue,  meet  in  the  heart 
of  the  great  manufacturing  center  of  Newark. 

While  in  that  city  my  father  attended  the  acad- 

7 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

emy.  It  soon  became  evident  that  he  was  making 
little  progress  with  his  studies ;  and  after  repeated  fail- 
ure he  was  declared  deficient,  and  it  was  decided  that 
it  was  useless  to  keep  him  at  school. 

That  he  was  not  dull  or  stupid  is  shown  by  the  fact 
that  his  sisters,  who  are  still  living,  testify  to  his  clev- 
erness and  fun-loving  propensities.  One  story  they 
tell  is  that  he  made  and  operated  a  galvanic  battery. 
What  uses  the  battery  was  put  to  beyond  giving 
shocks  to  the  other  children  and  the  family  cat  I  do 
not  know.  But  that  was  sufficient  to  prove  that  it 
"worked." 

Among  other  pranks  that  come  natural  to  the  small 
boy,  he  modeled  snakes  and  fierce  reptiles  from  wax, 
painted  them  bright  colors,  and  put  them  in  the  cup- 
boards to  frighten  the  maids  and  any  one  else  who 
happened  to  have  business  there.  Like  many  a 
genius  before  him,  the  tortured  and  provincial 
methods  of  schoolmasters  cramped  his  imagination 
and  forced  him  into  more  original  developments. 

Of  delicate  health,  and  endowed  with  a  keenly 
sensitive  nature,  the  boy  was  considered  "different." 
He  was  a  dreamer,  an  idealist  from  earliest  child- 
hood, and  lived  much  in  a  world  of  his  own  imagin- 
ings. In  speaking  of  his  aims  and  ambitions,  my 
father  once  told  me  that  his  desires  first  began  to 
crystallize  when,  as  a  very  little  chap,  he  saw  a  man 

8 


BOYHOOD  AND  YOUTH 

painting  a  picture  out  in  a  field.  Immediately  a 
responsive  chord  was  struck,  and  his  own  nebulous 
groping  for  self-expression  became  at  once  a  con- 
crete idea.  Then  and  there  he  made  up  his  mind 
that  when  he  grew  up  he  would  be  a  painter.  He 
told  me  that  he  thought  it  the  most  wonderful  thing 
in  the  world  to  make  with  paint  the  things  that  he  saw 
around  him,  clouds,  trees,  sunsets,  and  storms,  the 
very  things  that  brought  him  fame  in  later  years.  He 
told  me  with  what  awe  he  viewed  the  difficulty  of  get- 
ting a  piece  of  paper  big  enough,  for  he  thought  that 
to  paint  a  landscape  one  had  to  have  a  paper  as  large 
as  the  scene  itself — a  thought  as  naively  conceived  as 
it  was  expressed,  which  showed  even  then  the  breadth 
and  largeness  of  his  nature  as  manifested  in  feeling 
and  expression  in  his  canvases. 

Had  his  parents  been  of  finer  clay  they  would  have 
seen  that  this  boy  with  a  vision  was  destined  for  some- 
thing higher  than  the  mercantile  life  into  which  they 
tried  to  force  him;  or  had  he  been  born  on  the  other 
side  of  the  water,  his  talent  for  art  would  have  been 
fostered  and  encouraged  not  only  by  his  family,  but 
by  the  state,  as  was  the  case  with  Millet  and  others  of 
the  French  school,  who  were  sent  to  Paris  to  study  at 
the  expense  of  the  communities  in  which  they  lived. 

But  it  must  be  remembered  that  in  this  country  at 
the  time  of  George  Inness's  birth  there  were  virtually 

9 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

no  advantages  to  be  had  in  art,  and  there  were  even 
less  interest  and  appreciation  in  the  development  of 
it.  In  the  building  of  our  nation  there  had  been  lit- 
tle time  to  explore  the  esthetic  fields  of  art.  There 
had  been  no  time  for  pictures.  A  picture-painter  was 
beyond  the  pale.  An  artist  was  little  short  of  a  dis- 
grace. A  painter  of  pictures!  A  ne'er-do-well! 
George  Inness  might  as  well  have  been  a  play-actor, 
a  piano-player,  or  a  poet.  He  was  frankly  a  disap- 
pointment. 

On  one  occasion — I  remember  so  well  how  Pop 
would  tell  it  with  a  chuckle — he  met  his  brother  Joe 
on  the  street.  Joe  was  at  that  time  a  cash-boy  in  a 
dry-goods  store,  and  a  very  important  young  person 
in  his  own  eyes.  When  he  saw  my  father  he  assumed 
a  somewhat  superior  attitude ;  in  fact  he  did  not  have 
to  assume  it.  It  was  more  or  less  chronic  with  him, 
but  he  no  doubt  increased  it. 

"Hello,  George,"  he  said,  and  rattled  his  coins  in 
his  pocket.  "Made  any  money  to-day  painting  pic- 
tures? Why  don't  you  go  to  work  and  do  some- 
thing? Make  a  living  like  I  am  doing,  instead  of 
wasting  your  time  painting  pictures.  Who  wants 
pictures?"  Father  didn't  say  much,  but  he  seized 
him  by  the  scruff  of  the  neck,  and  when  he  got 
through  with  him,  there  was  not  enough  left  of  Joe  to 
listen  to  father's  answer. 

10 


BOYHOOD  AND  YOUTH 

This  attitude  on  the  part  of  his  family  was  of  little 
moment  to  Pop.  Fired  with  a  passionate  desire  to 
put  down  on  canvas  what  he  saw  in  nature,  the  beau- 
ties of  the  world  around  him,  he  kept  his  vision  clear. 
Nor  did  he  surrender  for  one  moment  that  determina- 
tion that  carried  him  to  the  foremost  ranks  of  Ameri- 
can art. 

However,  a  faint  hope  lingered  in  the  practical, 
paternal  breast.  There  was  yet  time  to  make  a  man 
of  the  boy.  His  schooling  had  been  a  failure.  The 
elder  Inness  conceded  that,  but  he  determined  to  try 
more  practical  methods ;  so  at  the  age  of  fourteen  my 
father  was  ensconced  in  a  little  grocery-store  on  the 
corner  of  Washington  and  New  streets,  Newark,  as 
sole  proprietor  and  owner.  He  used  to  love  to  tell 
about  those  days,  of  how  he  concealed  a  canvas,  a 
few  paints  and  brushes,  and  an  easel  behind  the 
counter ;  and  how  he  would  sit  there  and  paint  by  the 
hour  amidst  the  odors  of  onions,  soap,  sulphur 
matches,  and  kindling  wood ;  and  how,  when  custom- 
ers came,  he  would  duck  behind  the  counter  and  wait 
until  they  left.  By  such  methods  business  waned, 
and  at  the  end  of  a  month  an  episode  occurred  which 
brought  the  experiment  to  a  close,  and  proved  to  be 
the  turning-point  in  my  father's  career.  After  a  day 
of  unusual  activity  and  many  distractions  a  little  girl 
entered  the  store.    Father  crouched  behind  the 

11 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

counter  as  was  his  habit,  hoping  the  child  would  leave 
when  she  found  no  one  to  wait  upon  her.  But  the 
little  girl,  equally  determined  to  carry  out  her  mis- 
sion, stood  on  tiptoes,  reached  up,  and  jingled  her 
pennies  so  persistently  on  the  counter  that  the  young 
painter's  nerves  gave  way,  and  he  sprang  from  his 
lair  like  a  j  ack-in-the-box  and  yelled : 

"What  in  the  name  of  all  the  devils  do  you  want?" 

Terrified,  the  little  girl  rushed  from  the  store  and 
down  the  street  crying : 

"Candles!  candles!  candles!" 

Thoroughly  exasperated,  the  boy  gathered  up  his 
beloved  canvases  and  all  the  tools  of  his  chosen  pro- 
fession, and  walked  out  of  the  store.  He  carefully 
locked  the  door,  put  up  the  heavy  wooden  shutters  at 
the  windows,  and  turned  his  back  forever  on  com- 
mercial life.  Thus  the  greatest  conquest  of  his  life 
was  won. 

At  such  a  time  when  one  does  not  have  proper  per- 
spective on  actions  and  conditions  in  life,  a  thing  such 
as  this  grocery-store  incident  would  seem  a  catas- 
trophe ;  no  doubt  it  did  to  my  father's  family,  but  in 
the  light  of  retrospection  we  see  that  just  such  a  rad- 
ical move  was  necessary  to  force  the  embryo  artist  to 
that  point  of  exasperation  which  culminated  in  the 
actual  turning-point  in  his  career.  It  was  the  jolt 
that  pushed  him  into  his  proper  channel. 

12 


BOYHOOD  AND  YOUTH 

It  was  a  wise  decision  on  my  grandfather's  part, 
when  realizing  that  it  was  quite  impossible  to  fit  a 
square  peg  into  a  round  hole,  he  abandoned  the  hope 
of  molding  his  son  to  his  own  desires,  and  placed  him 
in  the  studio  of  a  man  named  Barker,  a  teacher  of 
drawing  and  painting  in  Newark,  to  learn  the  trade. 
For  if  his  son  persisted  in  being  a  vagabond  painter, 
he  wanted  to  make  him  as  good  a  one  as  was  in  his 
power,  and  give  him  every  advantage  that  he  could. 
After  a  few  months  of  instruction  Barker  declared 
that  he  could  teach  George  no  more,  that  the  boy  knew 
as  much  as  he  did. 

Later  he  worked  in  an  engraver's  office,  but  his 
health  was  poor  and  his  inclinations  weak,  so  he  soon 
abandoned  this  branch  of  the  arts  and  entered  the 
studio  of  Regis  Gignoux,  a  French  artist  of  some 
local  reputation,  whose  landscapes  may  be  seen  to-day 
among  the  older  collections  in  New  York.  Gignoux 
had  lived  in  Paris,  and  had  been  a  pupil  of  Paul  Dela- 
roche;  therefore  it  was  with  a  keen  interest  that  my 
father  took  up  his  studies  with  one  who  seemed  to 
him  at  that  time  eminent.  He  did  not  stay  with 
Gignoux  long  but  learned  from  him  the  handling  of 
color  and  the  theories  of  composition,  but,  as  Alfred 
Trumble  expresses  it  in  his  "Memorial  of  George  In- 
ness,"  "The  pictures  themselves  did  not  satisfy  him. 
He  knew  that  he  was  groping  in  the  dark.    He  was 

13 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

painting  as  others  around  him  were  painting,  not  as 
he  felt,  as  he  wished  to  paint.  These  things,  he  ar- 
gued with  himself,  were  not  nature.  They  had  none 
of  the  spirit  of  nature  in  them.  They  were  mere  col- 
ored drawings,  inspired  with  none  of  the  movement 
and  vitality  that  he  felt  instinctively  when  he  looked 
abroad  at  forest  and  farm  land,  mountain,  river,  and 
sky." 

"One  afternoon,"  said  Inness,  "when  I  was  com- 
pletely dispirited  and  disgusted,  I  gave  over  work 
and  went  out  for  a  walk.  In  a  print-shop  window  I 
noticed  an  engraving  after  one  of  the  old  masters.  I 
do  not  remember  what  picture  it  was.  I  could  not 
then  analyze  that  which  attracted  me  in  it,  but  it  fas- 
cinated me.  The  print-seller  showed  me  others,  and 
they  repeated  the  same  sensation  in  me.  There  was 
a  power  of  motive,  a  bigness  of  grasp,  in  them.  They 
were  nature,  rendered  grand  instead  of  being  belittled 
by  trifling  detail  and  puny  execution.  I  began  to 
take  them  out  with  me  to  compare  them  with  nature 
as  she  really  appeared,  and  the  light  began  to  dawn. 
I  had  no  originals  to  study,  but  I  found  some  of  their 
qualities  in  Cole  and  Durand,  to  which  I  had  access. 
There  was  a  lofty  striving  in  Cole,  although  he  did 
not  technically  realize  that  for  which  he  reached. 
There  was  in  Durand  a  more  intimate  feeling  of  na- 

14 


1 


THE  MILL 

(Painted  at  sixteen) 


BOYHOOD  AND  YOUTH 

ture.  'If,'  thought  I,  'these  two  can  only  be  com- 
bined!   I  will  try!'" 

The  result  is  well  known  to  all  lovers  of  Inness. 
Not  only  did  he  succeed  in  combining  those  qualities 
that  impressed  him  in  the  works  of  the  masters  that 
he  studied  assiduously,  but  he  added  that  dominant 
quality  of  spirituality,  or  bigness  of  vision,  that  was 
the  key-note  of  his  life.  I  cannot  express  it  better 
than  by  letting  him  speak  direct.    He  said: 

"The  true  use  of  art  is,  first,  to  cultivate  the  artist's 
own  spiritual  nature,  and,  second,  to  enter  as  a  factor 
in  general  civilization.  And  the  increase  of  these 
effects  depends  on  the  purity  of  the  artist's  motive  in 
the  pursuit  of  art.  Every  artist  who,  without  refer- 
ence to  external  circumstances,  aims  truly  to  repre- 
sent the  ideas  and  emotions  which  come  to  him  when 
he  is  in  the  presence  of  nature  is  in  process  of  his  own 
spiritual  development  and  is  a  benefactor  of  his  race. 
Of  course  no  man's  motive  can  be  absolutely  pure 
and  single.  His  environment  affects  him.  But  the 
true  artistic  impulse  is  divine" 

When  he  was  scarcely  more  than  a  boy  he  married 
Delia  Miller  of  Newark,  who  died  a  few  months  after- 
ward. This  marriage  seems  to  have  been  of  little 
importance ;  it  was  apparently  only  an  episode  in  his 
early  life. 

17 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

He  now  opened  his  first  studio,  and  began  to  paint 
according  to  the  new  ideas  he  had  obtained  from  the 
study  of  the  old  prints.  Not  only  friends,  but  fellow- 
artists,  so  called,  tried  to  persuade  him  that  he  could 
never  paint  that  way.  Set  rules  were  laid  down  for 
painting  landscapes,  and  they  must  not  be  violated  by 
a  mere  upstart  boy  who  would  not  paint  his  fore- 
ground trees  brown,  and  who  persisted  in  leaving  out 
the  plant,  the  foreground  plant,  the  key  to  the  Hud- 
son River  school.  In  consequence  his  struggle  for 
existence  became  more  acute,  until  his  brothers  finally 
had  to  come  to  the  rescue,  and  for  several  years  kept 
his  head  above  water  by  buying  his  pictures  and  re- 
selling them  when  and  where  they  could.  His  con- 
tempt for  the  commercial  aspect  of  life  was  profound, 
and  he  made  no  attempt  to  conceal  it.  He  has  ex- 
pressed himself  many  times  in  tones  that  left  no  room 
for  contradiction  that  business  was  obligated  to  sus- 
tain art,  and  that  merchants  were  created  only  to 
support  artists. 

Despite  the  opposition  against  which  he  battled 
there  were  a  few  progressive  souls  dominant  enough 
and  wise  enough  to  recognize  and  proclaim  genius. 
One  day  when  Inness  was  out  in  the  open  square 
sketching  a  crowd  gathered  around  him  and  gazed 
with  awe.  Such  things  as  artists  painting  in  the 
parks  were  unheard  of  in  those  days.    The  crowd, 

18 


BOYHOOD  AND  YOUTH 

having  satisfied  its  curiosity,  melted  away;  but  there 
remained  one  man  whose  interest  was  more  than  idle 
curiosity,  for  when  the  sketch  was  nearly  complete  he 
said  to  the  young  painter: 

"If  you  will  bring  the  picture  to  my  house  when 
you  finish  it,  I  will  give  you  a  hundred  dollars  for  it." 

That  man  was  Ogden  Haggerty,  a  prominent  auc- 
tioneer in  New  York.  He  was  the  first  to  recognize 
my  father's  possibilities,  and  later  became  so  con- 
vinced of  his  genius  that  he  sent  him  abroad  to  study, 
and  was  one  of  the  main  factors  in  his  development  as 
a  painter. 


19 


CHAPTER  II 


EARLY  INFLUENCES 

NOT  only  was  my  father  born  in  a  period  of 
the  world's  history  when  art  was  under- 
going a  very  radical  change,  but  coexistent 
with  that  change  there  was  taking  place  a  subtle 
renaissance  of  spiritual  thought.  Dissatisfied  with 
the  outworn  forms  and  traditions  of  worship,  indi- 
vidual thinkers  were  asserting  themselves,  and  now 
and  then  a  powerful  thought  was  projected,  causing 
new  impressions  to  rise  to  the  surface  of  the  sea  of 
religious  ideas,  showing  the  undercurrent  of  a  mighty 
change  that  was  taking  place  in  the  world  of  mind. 
George  Inness  was  just  such  a  thinker,  though  he 
wandered  through  all  phases  of  religious  expression 
to  find  himself,  and  was  well  on  towards  middle  life 
before  he  found  that  medium  which  satisfied  him. 

Born  into  a  family  of  various  creeds  and  beliefs, 
the  boy  was  brought  up  on  religious  discussion.  His 
mother  was  a  devout  Methodist,  his  aunt,  who  later 
became  his  stepmother,  was  an  equally  devout  Bap- 
tist. His  uncle,  his  mother's  brother,  was  a  stanch 
Universalist,  and  was  as  uncompromising  in  his  be- 

20 


EARLY  INFLUENCES 

liefs  as  the  other  members  of  the  family;  hence  re- 
ligious discussion  became  the  principal  topic  of  con- 
versation, or,  I  should  say,  argument,  in  the  home- 
circle.  This  state  of  affairs  led  to  self -investigation, 
and  being  naturally  introspective,  the  search  for  truth 
soon  became  a  passion  in  the  life  of  the  young  thinker. 
He  joined  first  one  church  and  then  another,  hoping 
thereby  to  find  that  which  would  satisfy  his  spiritual 
craving.  There  was  something  inspiring  in  the  inten- 
sity with  which  he  searched  and  groped  for  light  in  his 
life.  Deep  spiritual  concentration  and  true  desire  for 
illumination  were  ingrained  in  his  very  soul.  There 
was  no  compromise;  above  all  else  he  wanted  that 
thing  that  would  put  God  into  his  every-day  life,  and 
so  he  went  from  church  to  church,  from  creed  to  creed, 
trying  conscientiously  to  reconcile  each  in  turn  to  the 
truth  as  he  saw  it.  In  1849  we  have  record  that  he 
joined  the  Baptist  Church  and  was  baptized  in  the 
North  River.  Although  he  was  not  rewarded  in  what 
he  sought  in  that  faith,  the  law  of  compensation  inva- 
riably operates,  and  perhaps,  after  all,  it  was  fate 
which  led  him  there.  How  often  we  have  to  wander 
in  search  of  one  thing  to  find  that  which  we  are  not 
entirely  aware  of  desiring!  One  Sunday  morning 
while  attending  the  Sixteenth  Street  Baptist  Church 
he  was  listening  to  the  sermon,  no  doubt  a  long-winded 
dissertation,  when  his  attention  became  attracted  to  a 

91 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

very  beautiful  young  woman  across  the  aisle.  From 
that  moment  the  discourse  of  the  eminent  divine  had 
no  further  charms,  and  his  eyes  and  attention  were 
riveted  on  that  beautiful  face,  which  he  has  described 
to  me  often.  He  never  tired  of  telling  of  that  morn- 
ing. 

"George,"  he  would  say,  "it  was  a  dream.  The 
beauty  of  that  face  and  the  graceful  pose  of  that  head 
were  something  that  even  Raphael  could  not  have 
caught." 

At  the  close  of  the  service  she  hurried  home.  Close 
behind  her  followed  the  impetuous  young  lover,  never 
losing  sight  of  her  for  a  moment  until  she  disappeared 
into  a  little  house  on  Varick  Street. 

In  telling  me  of  her  feelings, — for  I  later  knew  the 
lady  very  well, — she  said  that  when  she  realized  that 
she  was  being  followed  she  became  greatly  perturbed, 
and  felt  a  tremendous  sense  of  relief  when  the  front 
door  closed  behind  her ;  but  curiosity  getting  the  bet- 
ter of  her,  she  peeped  through  the  window-curtain  and 
saw  the  dashing  young  stranger,  with  his  long  hair 
and  flowing  cloak,  pace  back  and  forth  in  front  of  the 
house.  Then,  to  her  astonishment,  he  mounted  the 
steps.  As  she  was  alone  in  the  house,  she  felt 
alarmed,  but  determined  to  respond  to  the  call  of  the 
bell. 

22 


EARLY  INFLUENCES 

As  the  door  swung  open  Inness  saw  the  beautiful 
object  of  his  affections,  and  with  a  low  bow  said: 

"Pardon  me ;  can  you  tell  me  if  Miss  Mary  Inness 
lives  here?"  Mary  was  his  sister,  whom  he  had  left 
only  a  few  hours  before  in  their  home  on  Broome 
Street. 

"No,"  she  replied;  "she  does  not.  I  have  heard  of 
Miss  Inness,  but  I  do  not  know  where  she  lives." 

With  profuse  thanks  and  another  low  bow,  they 
parted.  Pop  was  more  enamored  than  ever.  He 
rushed  home  and  told  his  sister  Mary  that  he  had  seen 
the  most  beautiful  woman  in  the  world  and  that  he 
was  going  to  marry  her.  After  a  brief,  but  no  doubt 
vivid,  description,  Mary  recognized  the  young  woman 
as  Elizabeth  Hart,  and  through  the  pleading  of 
George  and  the  cooperation  of  a  friend  who  knew  Miss 
Hart,  a  party  was  arranged,  and  Miss  Hart  invited. 
Still  in  ignorance  of  the  identity  of  the  handsome 
stranger  of  the  Sunday  before  and  not  connecting 
him  with  the  party,  Miss  Hart  accepted  Miss  Inness's 
invitation,  and  to  her  intense  surprise  found  herself 
placed  next  to  the  mysterious  gentleman  at  supper. 
That  evening  he  escorted  her  home,  and  when  he  re- 
turned his  father,  who  had  been  equally  impressed  with 
the  beauty  and  charm  of  their  new  guest  said : 

"George,  I 'd  like  you  to  marry  that  young  lady." 


23 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

"I 'm  going  to,"  replied  Pop,  and  with  the  same  im- 
petuosity and  passionate  intensity  which  character- 
ized everything  he  did  in  his  life  he  lost  no  time  in  his 
courtship.  In  the  supreme  awakening  of  a  great  love 
all  petty  convention  and  all  obstacles  melted  away,  and 
these  two  stood  face  to  face  with  a  devotion  as  deep 
and  true  as  life  itself. 

There  was  much  opposition  to  this  match  on  the 
part  of  her  family.  Her  father  had  been  lost  at  sea 
many  years  before,  and  her  brothers,  who  were  all 
older  than  she,  opposed  it  vigorously  because  this  pre- 
sumptuous young  upstart  was  an  artist,  and  to  marry 
an  artist — well,  one  might  as  well  marry  a  vagabond 
or  a  tramp  and  be  done  with  it.  Inness  was  forbidden 
the  house.  But  that  was  of  small  consequence,  as  they 
were  married  a  few  weeks  later,  and  throughout  the 
forty-odd  years  of  their  life  together  the  love  that  had 
so  adventurously  brought  them  together  led  them 
through  the  storms  of  life,  sustaining  them  through 
evil  days  and  good,  growing  deeper  and  more  beauti- 
ful with  each  experience  and  each  added  year.  The 
date  of  their  marriage  was  1850.  She  was  seventeen, 
and  he  twenty-five. 

Ogden  Haggerty  now  proposed  to  my  father  to  go 
abroad  to  study,  defraying  all  the  expenses,  and  soon 
after  their  marriage  my  mother  and  father  sailed  on 
their  first  ocean  voyage.    Father's  health  had  been 

^  24 


EARLY  INFLUENCES 

very  poor,  and  the  doctors  recommended  a  long  sea- 
voyage;  so  they  went  on  a  sailing-vessel.  The  jour- 
ney took  many  weeks,  and  mother  was  the  only 
woman  on  board.  Not  being  a  very  good  sailor,  she 
was  ill  most  of  the  way,  and  when  they  carried  her  up 
on  deck  as  the  ship  was  entering  the  Mediterranean, 
she  said  it  seemed  as  though  she  had  come  out  of  a 
frightful  dream  and  was  entering  paradise. 

They  stayed  in  Italy  for  two  years.  Father  studied 
and  painted  eagerly,  searching  and  studying  the  mas- 
ters with  an  intensity  and  an  eagerness  which  almost 
consumed  him.  While  in  Florence  their  first  child, 
Elizabeth,  was  born.  In  1852  they  returned  to  this 
country,  where  another  daughter  was  born,  whom  they 
named  Rosa  Bonheur,  after  the  painter  whom  my 
father  admired.  In  1854  they  crossed  the  ocean 
again,  this  time  going  to  Paris,  where  they  took  up 
their  residence  in  the  Latin  Quarter. 

After  the  limited  opportunities  that  my  father  had 
had  in  America  these  two  trips  to  the  art  centers  of 
the  world,  Italy  and  France,  were  a  revelation,  and  of 
untold  benefit  to  him.  He  came  into  immediate  and 
close  touch  with  the  masters  of  the  world  through 
their  works.  It  was  at  this  time  the  Barbison  school, 
having  emerged  victorious  from  the  revolution  of  art 
and  its  threadbare  traditions,  was  making  itself  felt  in 
France,  and  my  father  came  under  its  influence.  To 

27 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

say  that  he  was  directly  influenced  by  any  one  of  the 
men  of  1830  would  not  be  true,  but  he  was  undoubt- 
edly deeply  impressed  by  all  of  them.  He  studied 
their  methods  and  technic  with  great  interest  and 
culled  the  best  from  each.  But  the  point  that  I  want 
to  make  is  that  the  genius  expressed  in  my  father's 
pictures  came  from  within,  as  direct  inspiration,  as 
must  the  work  of  all  true  genius,  and  whatever  influ- 
ence there  was  in  his  art  lif  e  served  only  to  awaken  his 
own  dormant  emotions,  which  brought  forth  an  ex- 
pression entirely  individualized.  I  honestly  believe 
that  my  father  thought  that  he  could  surpass  any  artist 
that  ever  lived.  He  has  been  accused  of  conceit,  but 
was  it  really  that  in  the  common  acceptance  of  the 
word?  For,  after  all,  he  was  a  relentless  critic  of  his 
own  work.  Was  it  not  rather  that  high  form  of  con- 
ceit, or  lofty  conviction,  that  he  was  called  to  a  mighty 
destiny  which  he  was  in  honor  bound  to  fulfil?  Was 
it  not  that  sense  of  duty  which  some  one  has  so  beau- 
tifully expressed: 

Our  wishes,  it  is  said,  do  measure  just 
Our  capabilities.  Who  with  his  might 
Aspires  unto  the  mountain's  upper  height, 
Holds  in  that  aspiration  a  great  trust 
To  be  fulfilled,  a  warrant  that  he  must 
Not  disregard,  a  strength  to  reach  the  height 
To  which  his  hopes  have  taken  flight. 

What  influence  these  immortal  men  of  France  and 

28 


EARLY  INFLUENCES 

England  may  or  may  not  have  had,  they  opened  up 
new  fields  of  vision  and  new  avenues  of  thought. 
They  took  him  out  of  the  narrow  confines  of  the  Hud- 
son River  school,  and  placed  him  in  the  rarer  atmos- 
phere of  the  masters  of  the  world.  That  indomitable 
spirit  which  burst  through  the  bonds  of  commercial 
life  into  which  my  father's  life  seemed  destined  caused 
him  to  break  away  from  the  beaten  track  and  blaze  his 
own  trail  of  light.  He  sought  ever  to  interpret  nature 
in  its  highest  sense.  Art  with  him  was  life  itself;  it 
was  his  religion.  There  was  nothing  in  his  life  apart 
from  it,  and  that  supreme  aspiration  colored  every- 
thing in  his  whole  existence  and  gave  his  life  an  ex- 
quisite tone.  It  was  the  destiny  for  which  he  was  cre- 
ated, and  that  destiny  was  never  for  the  fraction  of  a 
moment  lost  sight  of.  It  was  the  impulse  that  knows 
no  denial. 

Art  was  with  him  the  expression  of  the  inner  life  of 
the  spirit.    He  said: 

"The  consciousness  of  immortality  is  wrapped  up  in 
all  the  experiences  of  my  life,  and  this  to  me  is  the  end 
of  the  argument.  Man's  unhappiness  arises  from  dis- 
obedience to  the  monitions  within  him.  The  principles 
that  underlie  art  are  spiritual  principles — the  principle 
of  unity  and  the  principle  of  harmony. 

"Christ  never  uttered  a  word  that  forbade  the  creat- 
ing or  the  enjoying  of  sensuous  form.    The  funda- 

29 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

mental  necessity  of  the  artist's  life  is  the  cultivation  of 
his  moral  powers,  and  the  loss  of  those  powers  is  the 
loss  of  artistic  power.  The  efforts  of  the  Catholic 
Church  to  excite  the  imagination  of  worshipers  are 
admirable,  because  the  imagination  is  the  life  of  the 
soul.  Art  is  an  essence  as  subtle  as  the  humanity  of 
God,  and,  like  it,  is  personal  only  to  love — a  stranger 
to  the  worldly  minded,  a  myth  to  the  mere  intellect.  I 
would  not  give  a  fig  for  art  ideas  except  as  they  repre- 
sent what  I,  in  common  with  all  men,  need  most — the 
good  of  our  practice  in  the  art  of  life.  Rivers, 
streams,  the  rippling  brook,  hillsides,  sky,  and  clouds, 
all  things  that  we  see,  will  convey  the  sentiment  of  the 
highest  art  if  we  are  in  the  love  of  God  and  the  desire 
of  truth." 

It  is  difficult  to  say  which  of  all  the  men  of  Barbison 
ranked  first  in  my  father's  estimation,  for  he  said: 

"As  landscape-painters  I  consider  Rousseau,  Dau- 
bigny,  and  Corot  among  the  very  best.  Daubigny 
particularly  and  Corot  have  mastered  the  relation  of 
things  in  nature  one  to  another,  and  have  obtained  the 
greatest  works,  representations  more  or  less  nearly 
perfect,  though  in  their  day  the  science  underlying 
impression  was  not  fully  known.  The  advance  al- 
ready made  is  that  science,  united  to  the  knowledge  of 
the  principles  underlying  the  attempt  made  by  those 
artists,  will,  we  may  hope,  soon  bring  the  art  of  land- 

30 


EARLY  INFLUENCES 

scape-painting  to  perfection.  Rousseau  was  perhaps 
the  greatest  French  landscape-painter,  but  I  have 
seen  in  this  country  some  of  the  smaller  things  of 
Corot  which  appeared  to  me  to  be  truly  and  thor- 
oughly spontaneous  representations  of  nature,  al- 
though weak  in  their  key  of  color,  as  Corot  always  is. 
But  his  idea  was  a  pure  one  and  he  had  long  been  a 
hard  student.  Daubigny  also  had  a  pure  idea,  and  so 
had  Rousseau.  There  was  no  affectation  in  these 
men,  there  were  no  tricks  of  color.  But  the  trouble 
with  Rousseau  was  that  he  has  too  much  detail.  He 's 
little,  he 's  twopenny.  He 's  little  with  detail,  and 
that  takes  away  from  his  artistic  worth." 

My  father  was  not  over-enthusiastic  about  Corot, 
but  thought  he  was  a  poet  and  a  tonist.  The  man,  I 
believe,  who  had  the  greatest  influence  on  him 
was  the  English  artist  Constable,  about  whom  he 
was  very  enthusiastic.  I  believe  more  of  Constable 
shows  in  Inness's  works  than  any  of  the  French 
school. 

He  was  a  great  admirer  of  Turner,  but  on  one  occa- 
sion when  he  attended  an  exhibition  in  a  house  in 
Fourteenth  Street,  New  York,  which  formed  the  nu- 
cleus of  the  Metropolitan  Museum,  he  saw  the  famous 
"Slave  Ship"  by  Turner.  My  father  looked  at  it,  and 
with  a  gesture  of  disgust  said : 

"That  is  the  most  infernal  piece  of  claptrap  ever 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

painted.  There  is  nothing  in  it.  It  has  as  much  to  do 
with  human  affections  and  thought  as  a  ghost.  It  is 
not  even  a  bouquet  of  color.  The  color  is  harsh,  dis- 
agreeable, and  discordant." 

During  this  sojourn  of  my  parents  in  Paris,  I  was 
born,  and  from  that  day  it  was  decreed  that  I,  too, 
should  be  a  painter.  In  that  year,  1854,  we  returned 
to  America  and  located  in  Brooklyn,  father  taking  a 
studio  in  New  York  and  thus  launching  himself  on  his 
American  career. 

As  I  have  already  said  in  a  previous  chapter,  in  my 
father's  boyhood  he  did  not  have  to  contend  with  finan- 
cial difficulties,  and  the  greatest  obstacle  in  his  way 
was  the  opposition  of  his  family.  Now,  added  to  that 
opposition,  which  was  by  no  means  limited  to  his  fam- 
ily, came  financial  troubles.  The  years  were  lean, 
and  there  was  a  growing  family  to  support.  At  that 
time  he  was  producing  some  of  the  pictures  that  have 
brought  many  thousands  of  dollars  in  recent  sales  in 
New  York ;  but  how  glad  he  would  have  been  to  receive 
even  one  hundred  then,  in  fact,  to  have  sold  them  at  all ! 
For  several  years  he  struggled  for  recognition,  but 
New  York  still  held  to  the  old  school  and  would  have 
none  of  him;  so  we  moved  to  Boston,  where,  again 
through  the  help  of  Ogden  Haggerty,  Williams  & 
Everett,  prominent  picture-dealers,  took  over  the 
management  of  his  pictures.    We  then  took  up  our 

34 


EARLY  INFLUENCES 

residence  in  Medfield,  a  suburb  of  Boston,  and  times 
became  better. 

After  our  return  to  America  a  third  daughter  was 
born,  whom  they  called  Louise,  and  two  years  later 
my  sister  Helen  was  born,  who  became  the  wife  of  J. 
Scott  Hartley,  the  sculptor.  The  sixth  child,  a  boy, 
died  in  infancy. 


35 


CHAPTER  III 


MEDFIELD  PERIOD 

THE  Medfield  period  lasted  from  1859  to 
1864.  From  the  point  of  view  of  artistic 
achievements  it  was  one  of  great  impor- 
tance in  my  father's  life.  The  ideas  which  he  had 
absorbed  were  now  beginning  to  show  in  his  work,  and 
his  own  individual  style  was  developing.  In  other 
words  George  Inness  was  beginning  to  be  George 
Inness. 

I  do  not  remember  how  we  got  to  Medfield,  but  I 
remember  smelling  wild  flowers  and  fields  for  the  first 
time.  I  remember  also  a  quarrel  with  my  sister  Rose 
in  which  I  came  out  victor.  My  father  took  me  to  the 
wood-shed  and  told  me  that  any  man  who  would  strike 
a  woman  ought  to  be  thrashed,  and  that  he  was  going 
to  whip  me ;  and  he  did.  He  picked  up  a  little  twig, 
— it  looked  like  the  trunk  of  a  tree, — and  switched  me 
well.  I  howled,  and  lay  on  the  floor  crying  that  he  had 
hurt  me ;  when  I  looked  up  I  saw  dear  old  Pop,  sitting 
on  a  saw-horse  crying,  too.  I  could  not  understand. 
I  am  wiser  now. 

His  tenderness  and  love  for  his  family  were  beauti- 

36 


MEDFIELD  PERIOD 

ful.  He  sought  to  understand  his  children  and  to  en- 
ter into  our  games  and  pleasures,  and  he  would  spend 
hours  making  kites  and  jackstraws  for  us.  Again  he 
would  be  in  a  different  world,  an  entirely  different 
man,  and  I  would  not  know  my  father.  As  I  review 
my  childhood,  a  little  incident  flashes  back  to  me  of  his 
tenderness.  Father  was  very  fond  of  roast  pig,  and  I 
think  he  had  been  reading  Charles  Lamb.  He  would 
try  anything  he  read  about;  when  he  read  "The  Count 
of  Monte  Christo"  he  tried  hashish.  I  am  glad  to 
say  he  did  not  follow  up  the  practice.  But  to  the  pig ! 
Pop  gave  me  a  dollar  to  buy  the  runt  from  a  farmer 
near  by.  To  possess  a  runt  had  been  my  ambition, 
and  for  one  dollar  the  farmer  said  he  would  give  me 
one.  That  is  pretty  cheap  for  a  pig.  A  runt  is  the 
smallest  pig  in  a  litter,  but  in  my  eyes  this  fellow  was 
the  finest  little  white  pet  in  the  world.  I  brought  the 
little  squealer  home,  and  built  a  pen  for  him  only  be- 
cause my  mother  would  not  let  me  have  him  for  a  bed- 
fellow. I  taught  him  to  drink  milk  by  letting  him 
suck  my  finger  as  the  farmer  had  shown  me,  and  I 
washed  him  every  day,  and  tucked  him  in  a  straw  bed 
at  night.  He  got  so  he  would  follow  me  like  a  dog, 
and  I  loved  that  pig ;  but  I  got  chills  and  fever,  and  it 
was  decreed  that  I  should  go  to  my  aunt's  in  Tenafly, 
New  Jersey,  for  a  change. 

After  I  had  shivered  my  poor  little  body  almost  to 

39 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

pieces  and  consumed  quarts  of  "Coligog,"  I  came 
home  cured.  After  the  usual  family  embraces  were 
over,  I  hurried  to  the  abode  of  my  pet  and  found  it 
deserted.    I  rushed  to  my  father  and  cried: 

"Oh,  Pop,  my  runt  is  gone  1" 

Pop  looked  very  shy  and  embarrassed,  then  said : 

"Why,  Georgie,  he  became  a  nuisance.  We  could 
not  keep  him  in  his  pen, — I  put  him  back  a  dozen 
times, — and  then  we  had  to  eat  him." 

"Oh,  why,  why,  did  you  eat  my  pig?  Could  n't  you 
have  nailed  another  slat  on  his  pen?"  I  cried,  and, 
leaving  the  room  broken-hearted,  went  up  in  the  attic, 
where  I  always  took  refuge  when  in  trouble. 

Before  long  I  heard  father  trudging  up-stairs.  He 
called  me  to  him  and  said :  "You  poor  little  chap !  Of 
course  I  should  have  nailed  another  slat  on  his  pen,  but 
I  never  thought  of  it.  Dry  your  eyes  and  come 
down-stairs,  and  I  will  get  you  a  dog,  and  I  promise 
you  I  will  not  eat  him." 

I  was  getting  to  be  what  my  mother  called  a  big 
boy,  and  father  began  to  realize  that  I  might  be  useful, 
so  he  showed  me  how  to  wash  his  brushes.  I  was  a 
proud  boy  that  day,  but  later  sometimes  felt  that  edu- 
cation has  its  drawbacks. 

Then  Mark  Fisher  came.  Mark  Fisher  was  a 
young  fellow  father  found  in  a  carriage-painter's  shop 
in  Boston.    Mark  was  clever,  and  drew  things,  so 

40 


MEDFIELD  PERIOD 

father  brought  him  to  live  with  us,  and  to  learn  to 
paint  pictures.  Mark  did  learn,  and  later  became  well 
known  in  England  as  an  artist. 

The  coming  of  Mark  was  an  event  in  my  life,  as  it 
gave  me  more  leisure  to  drill  and  march  with  our  com- 
pany, which  was  preparing  for  the  war.  You  see, 
Mark  washed  the  brushes.  Speaking  of  the  war,  my 
father  had  some  wooden  guns  made  for  our  company, 
and  I  was  to  be  captain;  but  discretion  is  the  better 
part  of  valor,  and  I  took  second  place  and  became  a 
private,  deferring  to  Foster  Bush,  our  minister's  son, 
who  later  became  a  distinguished  physician  of  Boston. 
He  was  bigger  than  I.  I  always  looked  up  to  Mark 
Fisher  as  a  great  man.  He  used  to  draw  funny  pic- 
tures much  better  than  father  could.  Mark  had  tend- 
encies that  might  have  led  him  to  the  drama.  One 
night  he  produced  a  play  in  our  dining-room.  He 
hung  a  sheet  across  one  end  of  the  room,  and  invited 
the  neighbors  in  to  see  him,  Pop,  and  Mama  play 
"Bombastes  Furioso." 

My  father  was  the  King,  of  course,  Mark  was  Bom- 
bastes, and  mama  was  Distaffena.  I  think  an  artist 
by  name  of  Cass  was  Fusbos.  My  father  was  dressed 
in  gorgeous  clothes,  and  had  a  gold  crown  on  his  head. 
He  was  very  fat.  I  saw  him  tie  a  pillow  over  his  stom- 
ach before  he  put  on  his  coat,  which  was  made  of  a 
piece  of  carpet  and  some  gold  paper.    Mark  had  a 

41 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

sword  with  a  blade  about  a  foot  broad,  and  when  he 
stuck  it  "clean  through"  Pop,  I  let  out  a  yell  that 
nearly  broke  up  the  entire  theater  party. 

A  sport  that  my  father  loved  was  skating  and  we 
had  many  parties  on  the  Charles  River  in  winter. 
When  Pop  skated  he  wore  a  shawl — in  fact,  nearly  all 
men  wore  shawls  in  those  days — and  with  his  long, 
black  hair  and  plaid  shawl  floating  in  the  breeze,  he  cut 
a  figure  that  in  my  young  eyes  was  the  quintessence  of 
grace. 

On  our  place  in  Medfield  there  was  an  old  barn 
which  was  converted  into  a  studio.  My  father's  stu- 
dios were  nearly  always  old  barns ;  there  was  none  of 
the  poseur  or  dilettante  about  him.  He  was  per- 
fectly content  with  one  chair,  an  easel,  and  his  tubes 
of  paint.  He  never  had  such  things  as  attractive 
rugs  or  broken  plates  or  bits  of  rags  and  silk  about  his 
place.  He  never  could  do  clever  tricks  with  his  pen- 
cil to  amuse,  and  never  was  attracted  by  the  so-called 
artistic  room  writh  Oriental  hangings,  and  used  to  ridi- 
cule old  plates  and  cups  and  saucers  and  canopied  di- 
vans and  Japanese  umbrellas.  There  was  nothing 
luxurious  about  his  studio ;  it  was  his  workroom,  and 
was  simplicity  almost  to  bareness. 

In  this  old  Medfield  barn  some  of  father's  most  rep- 
resentative pictures  were  painted;  there  he  painted 
many  of  the  magnificent  sunsets  and  elms  and  those 


MEDFIELD  PERIOD 

dramatic  storms  which  characterize  George  Inness. 
The  original  sketch  of  one  of  the  finest  examples  of 
his  work  was  done  there.  It  was  called  "Medfield 
Meadows,"  and  later  was  a  wedding  present  from  him 
to  my  wife  and  me. 

Those  were  wonderful  years  for  me.  I  used  to  sit 
there  in  his  studio  for  hours  at  a  time  watching  him 
paint,  pictures  now,  not  wash-tubs,  while  I,  with  a 
white  canvas  before  me,  a  large  brush,  and  a  pail  of 
water,  imitated  his  movements. 

When  he  painted  he  put  all  the  force  of  his 
nature  into  it.  Full  of  vim  and  vigor,  he  was  like  a 
dynamo.  It  was  punch  here  and  dab  there.  He  was 
indefatigable.  He  was  a  totally  different  man  in  his 
studio  from  what  he  was  out  of  doors.  Out  of  doors 
he  was  quiet,  rational,  and  absorbed.  I  have  seen  him 
sit  in  the  same  spot  every  day  for  a  week  or  more 
studying  carefully  and  minutely  the  contours  of  trees 
and  the  composition  of  the  clouds  and  grass,  drawing 
very  carefully  with  painstaking  exactness.  But  in  his 
studio  he  was  like  a  madman.  He  seldom  painted  di- 
rect from  nature.  He  would  study  for  days,  then  with 
a  sudden  inspiration  would  go  at  a  canvas  with  the 
most  dynamic  energy,  creating  the  composition  from 
his  own  brain,  but  with  so  thorough  an  underlying 
knowledge  of  nature  that  the  key-note  of  his  land- 
scapes was  always  truth  and  sincerity  and  absolute 

45 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

fidelity  to  nature.  It  was  his  honesty  and  simplicity 
that  made  him  great. 

"Never  put  anything  on  your  canvas  that  is  n't  of 
use,"  he  would  say;  "never  use  a  detail  unless  it  means 
something."  He  would  start  a  marine  or  shipwreck, 
and  with  a  gesture  of  impatience  would  say,  "Oh,  con- 
found it!  that  does  n't  look  like  water,"  and  with  a  few 
swift  strokes  would  put  in  some  grass  and  trees,  and 
more  than  likely,  before  he  got  through,  it  would  be  a 
snow-scene. 

It  was  in  the  old  barn  studio  that  my  father  painted 
a  large  canvas  called  "The  Sign  of  Promise."  It 
makes  me  shudder  to  think  how  near  this  canvas  came 
to  being  lost  to  the  world.  Some  of  it  was,  but,  owing 
to  the  peculiar  tendency  to  repaint  canvases,  some  of 
the  original,  with  more  added,  has  been  immortalized 
under  the  name  of  "Peace  and  Plenty."  It  now 
hangs  in  the  Metropolitan  Museum  of  Art  in  New 
York.  It  was  a  wheat-field,  as  I  remember  it,  with  a 
rainbow  in  the  sky.  Well,  this  canvas,  "The  Sign  of 
Promise,"  got  Pop  and  me  into  a  good  deal  of  trouble 
one  day,  especially  Pop.  I  was  working  in  a  little 
garden  where  I  had  planted  beans, — was  just  digging 
the  beans  up  to  see  if  they  were  growing, — when  I 
heard  the  most  terrible,  muffled  noise  coming  from  the 
studio  that  sounded  like  "George";  but  the  voice  was 
so  strange  and  weird  that  I  was  frightened,  and  ran 

46 


MEDFIELD  PERIOD 

into  the  house,  and  hid  my  face  in  the  folds  of  my 
grandmother's  apron.  My  mother  was  out  at  the 
time.  I  told  between  my  sobs  that  there  was  some- 
thing awful  in  the  studio.  While  grandmother  was 
trying  to  get  her  wits  together,  Pop  appeared  at  the 
kitchen  door,  calling  for  me. 
Grandmother  said : 

"Oh,  George,  don't  punish  him!"  said  my  grand- 
mother.   "He 's  so  frightened." 
Father  answered : 

"I  shall  not  punish  him,  but  I  want  to  show  him 
what  his  cowardice  has  caused  me."  When  I  looked 
up,  there  stood  my  father,  his  face  streaked  with  color. 
We  went  hand  in  hand  to  the  studio ;  there  on  the  floor, 
face  down,  lay  "The  Sign  of  Promise."  Pop  ex- 
plained to  me  that  if  I  had  not  been  such  a  little  cow- 
ard I  could  have  removed  the  chair  that,  as  he  tried 
to  kick  it  out  of  the  way,  had  caused  him  to  fall  with 
his  canvas,  his  face  down,  and  into  the  palette,  which 
he  had  no  time  to  remove  from  his  thumb.  As  he 
crawled  from  under  the  canvas  a  great  deal  of  "The 
Sign  of  Promise"  had  come  off  on  Pop's  clothes. 
Not  being  able  to  dispose  of  this  canvas,  which  has 
since  become  famous,  in  any  other  way,  it  was  given 
in  part  payment  for  a  house  in  New  Jersey.  I  fancy 
that  "Peace  and  Plenty"  would  now  bring  a  good 
many  houses  like  that  one  in  New  Jersey. 

47 


CHAPTER  IV 


MEDFIELD  PERIOD  II 

THE  Medfield  days  were  war-times ;  the  Civil 
War  had  just  begun.  My  father  was  all 
enthusiasm.  He  was  not  fit  for  service,  as 
he  was  not  strong.  I  remember  our  fears  when  he 
went  to  be  examined  for  enlistment,  and  the  joy  with 
which  we  received  the  news  that  he  did  not  pass.  But 
he  worked  hard  in  other  ways.  He  raised  money  and 
men ;  he  made  speeches  in  front  of  the  meeting-house 
nearly  every  night,  and  old  Tom  Barney,  who  kept  the 
village  store,  and  whom  I  met  fifteen  years  later,  told 
me  my  father  went  to  Boston,  borrowed  one  hundred 
dollars  from  an  art  dealer,  rushed  back  to  Medfield, 
and  said:  "Tom,  they've  killed  all  our  men.  Take 
this,  and  send  the  poor  fellows  stockings."  Tom 
added:  "I  done  it  conscientious;  but  I 've  always  won- 
dered how  they  wore  'em." 

Pop  was  a  good  fellow  with  the  boys  who  hung 
around  the  village  store  and  used  to  joke  with  them. 
Tom  Barney  was  a  quaint  character,  and  in  after  years 
I  spent  many  an  hour  listening  to  him  as  he  drawled 

48 


MEDFIELD  PERIOD  II 

out  "the  queer  things  your  father  done  and  the  yarns 
he  used  to  tell."    This  was  a  pet  story: 

"George  Inness  was  the  smartest  fellow  that  ever 
come  to  these  parts ;  he  was  forever  getting  off  some- 
thin'  on  the  boys,  and  he  got  one  off  on  me  oncet.  You 
see,  your  father  come  down  to  the  store  one  winter 
night  when  he  knowed  all  the  boys  would  be  there, 
squirtin'  terbacca  juice  into  the  sand-box  under  the 
store  stove,  and  he  says,  4 Tom,  I  had  a  dream  last 
night  that 's  worried  me  all  day ;  and  I 'd  'a'  come  down 
sooner  if  I  had  n't  been  so  busy.'  Of  course  he  waited 
till  he  knowed  all  the  boys  'u'd  be  around  the  stove. 
'Well,'  he  says,  'I  dreamed  I  died  and  I  found  myself 
standing  in  front  of  two  roads.  One  was  a  great 
broad  road,  and  t'  other  was  nothin'  much  more  'n  a 
cow-path.  Well,'  he  says,  'I  knowed  where  they  went 
to,  'cause  I  remember  mother  used  to  tell  me  to  take 
the  crooked  road,  which  led  to  heaven,  for  the  beautiful 
straight  road  run  straight  into  t'  other  place.  Well,' 
says  your  father,  'I  took  the  little  crooked  road,  and 
after  a  while,  after  I  was  all  het  up  and  awful  tired, 
for  the  road  was  full  of  stones  and  sticks  and  things,  I 
come  to  a  beautiful  gate.  Tom,'  he  says,  'it  was  all 
stuck  around  with  jewels  and  gold,  and  the  light  that 
came  from  it  just  blinded  me.  I  knowed,'  said  he,  'it 
was  the  gate  of  heaven,  but  I  was  scared  to  knock, 
'cause  I  thought  maybe  they  would  n't  let  me  in.  But 

51 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

after  a  spell/  says  he,  'I  got  my  courage  up  an' 
knocked  at  the  door.  Pretty  soon,'  he  says,  'a  feller 
come  to  the  gate  and  opened  it  just  a  crack-like,  and 
he  says,  "Who  be  you?"  Tom,'  says  your  father,  'it 
was  Saint  Peter.  I  knowed  him  'cause  he  carried  a 
big  key ;  the  old  masters  in  Europe  always  painted  him 
with  a  big  key  in  his  hand.  Well,  St.  Peter  says,'  says 
he, '  "Who  be  you?"  and  I  says,  "George  Inness."  He 
says,  "Don't  know  yer.  Where 'd  yer  come  from,  and 
what 's  yer  trade?"  I  says,  "I  come  from  Medfleld, 
Massachusetts,  and  I 'm  an  artist."  Tom,  when  I 
said  that,'  says  your  father,  'Saint  Peter  give  a  jump 
and  said,  "Mercy!  What  you  a-doin'  here?  We 
don't  let  no  artists  in  here;  you  take  the  other  road 
down  the  hill.  You  '11  find  plenty  of  your  kind  down 
there."  I  says,'  says  he,  '  "O  Saint  Peter,  don't  send 
me  down  there!  I  know  where  it  leads  to, — my 
mother  told  me, — and  I  don't  like  artists."  "Oh,  yer 
don't,"  says  Saint  Peter.  "Be  yer  a  Christian?" 
Well,  Tom/  says  your  father,  'that  was  a  blow  that 
floored  me.  I  could  n't  say  I  was  a  Christian,  and  I 
dares  n't  say  I  were  n't;  so  I  says,  "Not  as  they  count 
a  Christian  in  Medfleld ;  I  don't  belong  to  no  church."  ' 
At  that,  so  your  father  says,  Saint  Peter  shet  the  gate 
in  his  face.  'Well,'  he  goes  on,  T  set  on  a  stone  outside 
awhile,  and  cried,  'cause  I  didn't  want  to  go  down 

52 


MEDFIELD  PERIOD  II 

among  the  artists;  so  I  plucked  up  my  courage,  and 
knocked  on  the  gate  again,  and  when  Saint  Peter 
come  once  more,  I  said,  4 'I  just  knocked  again  to  say 
I  know  a  Christian."  "You  do?"  says  he.  "Well, 
do  tell!  What's  his  name  and  where 's  he  from?" 
"His  name,"  says  I,  "is  Tom  Barney."  "Don't 
know  no  such  Christian,"  says  Saint  Peter.  "You 
don't?"  says  your  father,  "why  he 's  the  pillar  of  the 
Baptist  Church  in  Medfield."  "Oh,  yes,"  says  Saint 
Peter,  "I  recollect  him  now.  He 's  deacon  in  the 
Baptist  Church,  and,  let  me  see,  he  keeps  a  grocery 
store,  don't  he?  Yes,  he 's  a  Christian  all  right. 
So  you  know  Tom  Barney,  pillar  of  the  Baptist 
Church,  do  you?  Say,  have  you  knowed  him  long? 
About  three  years,  you  say?  Do  you  trade  to  his 
store?  Yer  have,  have  yer?  Well,  in  them  three 
years  you 've  been  tradin'  with  Tom  Barney,  the 
pillar  of  the  Baptist  Church,  did  you  ever  suspect — 
that  is,  did  you  ever  think  that  maybe,  sometimes, 
there  was  a  leetle  too  much  sand  in  the  sugar?" 
"Oh,  no,"  says  your  father,  "I  never  suspected  any 
such  thing."  "Well,"  says  Saint  Peter,  "if  you 've 
traded  with  Tom  Barney,  pillar  of  the  Baptist  Church 
of  Medfield  for  three  years,  and  are  such  a'  innocent 
damned  fool  as  not  to  know  Tom  was  cheating  you 
right  along,  come  right  in.  You  can't  do  no  harm !"  ' 
"Of  course,"  said  Tom,  "your  father  was  only  fool- 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

ing,  and  only  said  it  to  make  the  boys  laugh;  but  I 
never  done  it  no  more." 

In  Medfield  father  worked  a  great  deal  out  of  doors, 
studying  nature,  and  often  when  I  was  not  at  school  we 
tramped  long  distances  with  our  packs  on  our  backs 
and  a  lunch  in  our  pockets.  I  had  a  sketch-book,  and 
used  to  draw  trees  and  fences,  while  father  painted 
some  of  the  pictures  that  are  to-day  attracting  so 
much  attention.  Although  not  more  than  nine  years 
of  age  I  had  wisdom  enough  to  examine  him  before  we 
started  out,  for  I  had  learned  by  sad  experience  and 
weary  little  legs  that  my  parent  was  absent-minded, 
and  frequently  got  a  mile  from  home  before  he  would 
discover  that  he  had  no  paint-rags  or  was  out  of  yellow 
ochre ;  then  I  would  have  to  tramp  home  for  them. 

He  was  so  absent-minded  that  it  was  positively  dan- 
gerous for  him  to  go  out  alone.  He  was  very  deep — 
that  is,  in  another  world.  One  could  not  always  place 
him.  To  jump  ahead  of  my  story,  I  remember  on 
many  occasions  when  we  lived  in  Montclair  and  my 
children  were  little  tots,  they  would  come  in  and  tell 
me  that  they  had  met  their  grandfather  on  the  street, 
and  hailed  him,  after  the  manner  of  children,  "Hello, 
Grandfather!"  and  grandfather  would  say:  "Ah, 
hello,  little  girl!  Whose  child  are  you,  George's  or 
Helen's?" 

And  he  sometimes  did  not  know  his  own  children. 

54 


MEDFIELD  PERIOD  II 

He  went  over  to  Brooklyn  one  day  to  see  his  sister. 
He  had  just  returned  from  Europe,  and  upon  inquiry 
as  to  how  many  children  he  had,  he  replied: 

"I  don't  know.  Lizzie  will  be  here  soon;  she 
knows." 

On  one  of  Pop's  trips  to  Boston  mother  asked  him 
to  buy  a  pair  of  shoes  for  one  of  the  children,  and  gave 
him  explicit  instructions.  When  he  returned,  instead 
of  bringing  the  shoes,  he  had  sent  home  a  case  of  shoes, 
of  all  sizes  and  colors,  for  which  he  had  exchanged  a 
picture.  He  explained  to  my  mother  that  the  chil- 
dren would  grow  into  them.  Another  time  when  she 
asked  him  to  buy  her  a  few  earthenware  pie-plates 
he  sent  home  a  hogsheadful. 

The  years  in  Medfleld  were  lean  financially.  Pic- 
tures were  not  selling  fast  or  steadily,  and  when  they 
did,  they  brought  very  little.  Although  father  had 
more  success  in  Massachusetts  than  in  New  York,  our 
lives  were  not  exactly  pampered  by  the  luxuries  that 
generally  flow  from  a  full  purse,  and  I  fancy  that  the 
flour  in  the  barrel  was  pretty  low  at  times.  How- 
ever, my  father  was  happy  in  the  profession  that  he 
loved  and  the  wife  whom  he  adored.  My  mother  was 
a  very  beautiful  woman,  and  with  it  all  displayed  a 
gentleness  and  wisdom  that  had  a  wonderful  influence 
on  my  father's  life.  He  was  high-strung,  nervous, 
reckless,  and  generous  to  a  fault.    I  believe  he  would 

55 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

have  given  the  coat  on  his  back  to  help  any  one  in  dis- 
tress. 

Sometimes  I  have  seen  my  mother,  with  her  beauti- 
ful Grecian  face,  hovering  over  a  kitchen  stove;  but 
generally  we  had  a  hired  girl.  Money,  with  an  artist, 
is  like  fits ;  it  comes  occasionally,  and  when  it  comes, 
comes  with  a  jolt  that  sets  a  reckless  man  on  a  steel- 
trust  pinnacle.  One  day  while  in  Boston  my  father 
got  the  jolt,  and  immediately  repaired  to  a  jewelry- 
shop.  I  do  not  know  how  much  he  got  for  the  pic- 
tures, but  I  do  know  that  he  brought  home  to  the  beau- 
tiful mother  of  his  children  a  diamond  necklace.  He 
clasped  it  around  my  mother's  neck. 

"O  George,"  she  exclaimed,  "how  beautiful!  O  my 
dear,  the  wish  of  my  life  has  been  to  possess  a  diamond 
necklace."  Everything  was  happiness  that  evening, 
and  to  celebrate  the  great  occasion  the  children  were 
allowed  to  sit  up  later  than  usual. 

A  few  days  after  this  my  father  said: 

"Lizzie,  why  don't  you  wear  your  necklace?  I 
haven't  seen  it  around  your  neck  since  the  night  I 
brought  it  to  you." 

My  mother  replied : 

"Why,  how  would  I  look  with  a  diamond  necklace 
and  this  calico  gown?  It  would  be  out  of  place. 
Some  day  before  long,  when  our  ship  comes  in,  you 
will  get  me  a  velvet  gown,  and  we  will  go  to  New 

56 


MEDFIELD  PERIOD  II 

York  and  to  the  reception  at  the  Academy  of  Design, 
and  I  can  wear  the  necklace  and  show  people  how 
proud  I  can  be  as  the  wife  of  the  great  genius." 

But  father  was  not  satisfied.  He  insisted  that  she 
was  the  most  beautiful  woman  God  had  ever  made, 
and  he  wanted  to  see  how  her  beautiful  neck  would 
show  off  a  diamond  necklace.  Then  mother  put  her 
arms  about  his  neck  and  said : 

"Dear  husband,  I  have  not  got  the  necklace." 

"Not  got  the  necklace!  What  in  the  world  has  be- 
come of  it?" 

"You  see,  dear,  I  went  to  Boston  the  next  day,  and 
the  jeweler  gave  me  the  money  you  paid  for  it,  and  I 
put  it  in  the  bank." 

My  father  clasped  her  in  his  arms  and  sobbed : 
"You  are  the  best  little  wife  a  man  ever  had." 


57 


CHAPTER  V 


THE  EAGLESWOOD  PERIOD 

IF  the  Medfield  days  were  deeply  significant  of 
my  father's  art  development,  the  next  stage  of 
his  life,  which  I  might  term  the  Eagleswood 
period,  was  more  significant  in  spiritual  unfolding. 
Father  had  been  persuaded  by  Marcus  Spring  to  leave 
Massachusetts  and  go  to  Eagleswood,  New  Jersey,  a 
suburb  of  Perth  Amboy,  where  Spring  built  him  a 
house,  taking  "Peace  and  Plenty"  in  part  payment. 

A  short  time  before  this  the  Baptist  religion  had 
gone  the  way  of  all  others,  and  he  was  again  adrift;  but 
at  last  he  thought  he  had  found  what  he  wanted:  he 
would  go  back  to  his  mother's  church.  She  was  a 
Methodist  and  a  good  woman,  so  he  joined  the  ranks 
of  the  Methodists,  and  was  happy  for  a  while.  One 
Sunday  he  took  me  to  church.  It  was  a  very  hot  day, 
and  I  do  not  remember  what  the  sermon  was  about, 
but  there  were  lots  of  damns  and  hells  in  it,  mixed  up 
with  brimstone  and  fire.  I  looked  over  at  Pop.  He 
was  agitated,  and  the  perspiration  was  streaming  from 
his  face.  He  stood  it  as  long  as  he  could,  then,  taking 
me  by  the  hand,  said : 

58 


r 


Wife  of  George  Inness 


George  Inness,  1862 


George  Inness,  18G2  George  Inness,  Jr.,  1862 

SOME  FAMILY  PORTRAITS 


THE  EAGLESWOOD  PERIOD 

"Come,  Georgie,  let 's  get  out  of  here.  We  made  a 
mistake,  and  got  into  hell." 

Fortunately  for  my  father,  William  Page,  the  por- 
trait-painter, a  one-time  president  of  the  Academy  of 
Design,  was  living  at  Eagles  wood  when  we  moved 
there.  They  became  warm  friends,  and  Page  brought 
to  my  father  the  teachings  of  Emanuel  Swedenborg. 
This  philosophy  came  at  the  time  of  his  life  when  he 
most  needed  something  to  lift  him  out  of  himself  and 
the  limited  doctrines  of  orthodox  creeds.  He  threw 
himself  into  its  teachings  with  all  the  fire  and  enthu- 
siasm of  his  nature,  and  although  he  did  not  adhere 
strictly  to  its  tenets,  it  led  to  other  metaphysical  re- 
search, and  he  at  last  truly  found  that  form  of  expres- 
sion for  which  he  had  searched  throughout  his  life — 
the  consciousness  of  God  in  his  soul  manifested  in 
every  experience  of  his  life. 

During  the  latter  part  of  his  life  he  wrote  con- 
stantly on  these  subjects,  though  few  things  were  pub- 
lished. He  was  full  of  theories  of  art,  religion  and 
ethics,  and  would  talk  theory  and  preach  theory  to  all 
who  would  listen  to  him.  It  made  no  difference 
whether  they  agreed  with  him  or  even  understood ;  he 
kept  right  on  talking  theory.  I  have  seen  him  pin  a 
man  to  a  chair  and  pound  his  ideas  into  him  for  hours 
at  a  time  until  he  and  his  listener  were  both  exhausted. 
One  summer  when  my  father  and  mother  were  visiting 

61 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

me  at  St.  Andrews,  New  Brunswick,  they  met  Sir 
William  Van  Home,  a  most  charming  and  cultivated 
Canadian  gentleman.  One  evening  after  dinner  my 
father  cornered  Sir  William,  and  for  hours  poured 
into  him  his  theories  of  Swedenborg,  Henry  George, 
the  single  tax,  and  paint,  pounding  each  word  in 
with  a  jab  of  his  forefinger,  until  the  poor  fellow,  in 
utter  desperation,  tore  himself  away  and  retired.  The 
next  morning  when  Sir  William  went  out  on  the 
piazza  he  found  father  in  the  same  chair  and  in  the 
same  attitude  as  when  he  had  left  him.  Catching 
sight  of  Van  Home,  father  picked  up  the  thread  of 
discourse  where  he  had  left  off  the  night  before,  and 
went  on  with  his  lecture.  Sir  William  confided  to  me 
that  he  wondered  if  my  father  had  kept  it  up  all  night, 
not  knowing  that  he  had  gone  to  bed. 

The  single  tax  was  a  theme  that  interested  my 
father  very  much.  It  was  one  of  his  pet  theories.  In 
telling  me  the  foregoing  story,  Sir  William  was  re- 
minded of  another,  a  propos  of  this  topic. 

"I  entertained  at  dinner  a  number  of  distinguished 
Australians,"  he  said,  "among  them  an  eminent  pub- 
licist. The  single  tax  excites  much  ridicule  and  dis- 
cussion in  Australia,  and  your  father,  as  you  know, 
had  become  an  ardent  Georgite.  The  talk  at  dinner 
turned  upon  the  tax,  and  the  Australian  view  was 
expounded  at  length  by  the  distinguished  publicist. 

62 


THE  EAGLE S WOOD  PERIOD 

Inness  sat  silent,  his  burning,  black  eyes  under  his 
black  and  shaggy  fell  of  hair,  fixed  upon  the  orator, 
who  talked  the  more  complacently  in  the  conscious- 
ness of  so  appreciative  a  listener.  When  his  argu- 
ments were  exhausted  and  the  speaker  paused,  Inness 
shot  from  his  seat,  and  thrust  his  forefinger  into  the 
speaker's  face  with,  'Did  you  mean  what  you  said?' 
Then  followed  the  most  amazing  exhibition  of  reason- 
ing and  logic  I  have  ever  witnessed.  With  a  display 
of  memory  and  a  grasp  of  understanding  that  was 
marvelous  to  see,  Inness  brought  up  every  statement 
the  great  publicist  had  made,  showing  his  utter  clum- 
siness of  reasoning,  putting  his  logic  to  confusion,  and 
exposing  his  falsity  of  statement. 

"After  propounding  his  theories  with  a  conviction 
that  made  the  audience  speechless,  your  father 
rounded  up  those  giant  Australians  like  so  many 
sheep,  and  literally  drove  them  into  the  drawing-room. 
I  have  never  seen  anything  like  it,"  said  Sir  William. 
"It  was  amazing  the  way  he  silenced  that  speaker  with 
facts.    It  was  too  good  to  be  true." 

It  was  not  with  any  idea  of  establishing  a  religion 
for  the  whole  world  that  he  went  into  theological  sub- 
jects; nor  did  he  condemn  the  old  order  of  things  for 
those  who  found  spiritual  food  in  them.  It  was  sim- 
ply to  find  God  in  the  way  that  brought  satisfaction  to 
himself;  for  in  one  of  his  manuscripts  he  says: 

63 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

No  man  can  possibly  know  what  is  good  for  another ;  he 
can  only  enjoy  and  give  of  what  he  enjoys  through  the  con- 
nected ministrations  of  the  human  race.  Error  is  in  giving 
voice  to  the  states  that  are  not  enjoyed.  This  science  is 
bound  to  be  correct.  For  the  word  of  Good  (God)  cannot 
be  perverted  without  punishment.    "As  ye  think,  so  are  ye." 

It  can  be  only  through  the  awakening  perception  of  scien- 
tific genius  firmly  grounded  in  religious  conviction  that  such 
a  science — for  a  science  it  must  be,  though  unlimited — can 
become  a  possibility.  Much  has  been  said  about  a  scien- 
tific religion,  and  many  appear  to  have  hoped  for  it ;  but  a 
new  system  of  faith  can  be  formed  only  upon  what  has  pre- 
ceded it,  and  to  be  a  religious  faith  it  must  be  in  accord  with 
the  universal  bond  of  human  sentiment.  Science,  even  un- 
limited, cannot  make  a  faith  any  more  than  it  can  make  a 
soul.  Its  truths  serve  only  to  confirm.  A  spiritual  science 
must  be  an  inspiration  from  or  through  the  religious  mind 
into  the  scientific  mind. 

His  liberality  of  thought  is  expressed  in  the  fol- 
lowing passage : 

Its  forms  [of  expression]  may  be  various,  but  from  its 
center  comes  the  true  light  which  lighteth  every  man  that 
cometh  into  the  world. 

If  we  accept  the  philosophy  that  man  was  made  in  the  im- 
age and  likeness  of  God,  our  hope  of  attaining  an  idea  of 
God  or  the  infinite  cause  for  which  science  is  searching  is  not 
only  by  investigating  or  classifying  material  forms,  but  by 
subjecting  such  classification  to  laws  or  principles  inherent 
as  the  properties  or  attributes  of  the  reasoning  mind.  Let 
us  endeavor,  then,  to  clothe  or  illustrate  an  idea  of  the  mind 
or  thought  in  a  form  fitted  to  material  comprehension  by 
considering  such  idea  as  a  point  or  center  from  which  are 

64 


THE  EAGLESWOOD  PERIOD 

intellectual  radiations,  in  fact,  as  the  reality  or  truth  of  a 
center  of  motion. 

Such  a  point  can  be  considered  only  as  the  creation  of 
being  itself,  which  being  is  in  us  the  affection  or  touch  of  life, 
felt  as  the  consciousness  of  something  existing  as  a  substan- 
tial entity,  which  I  appreciate  as  an  idea  from  myself  as  an 
active  center  of  thought,  yet  my  idea  proceeds  from  my  pe- 
culiar affection  of  form  of  life,  hidden  from  my  understand- 
ing, partaking  of  its  quality  or  substance,  and  from  it  ra- 
diates my  thought,  propelled  by  the  extension  of  my  life, 
creating  in  my  ultimate  act  ideas  of  sensation  or  conviction 
of  that  which  is  not  me,  but  which  confirms  me  as  an  individ- 
ual center,  or  the  idea  of  selfhood. 

There  was  only  one  subject  that  I  know  of  that 
Page  and  my  father  disagreed  upon;  that  subject  was 
what  they  called  "the  middle  tone."  Now,  the  middle 
tone  was  Page's  idea.  He  claimed  that  the  horizon 
should  be  a  middle  tone:  that  is,  it  should  be  half-way 
between  the  lightest  light  and  the  greatest  dark  in  the 
picture.  Father  agreed  with  him  on  that  point,  but 
what  they  could  not  agree  upon  was  just  what  a  mid- 
dle tone  really  was.  So  Page,  to  explain  more  fully, 
took  a  strip  of  tin  and  painted  it  white  at  one  end  and 
black  at  the  other,  and  then  graded  in  stripes  from 
both  ends  until  it  reached  a  gray  tone  in  the  middle. 
This  he  showed  to  my  father  and  said  triumphantly, 
"There 's  the  true  middle  tone  I"  The  next  day  father 
went  to  Page's  studio  with  a  similar  strip  of  tin  and 
declared  that  he  had  the  true  middle  tone.    When  they 

67 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

compared  the  two  hues,  there  was  no  resemblance  be- 
tween them.  Then  the  fight  was  on,  and  these  two 
gentlemen,  after  yelling  themselves  hoarse  and  saying 
some  very  uncomplimentary  things  to  each  other, 
would  break  away,  and  not  speak  to  each  other  for 
days.  Then  they  would  come  together  again  and  re- 
sume the  argument  with  renewed  vigor.  These  hos- 
tilities were  kept  up,  off  and  on  for  two  years,  when 
Page  built  himself  a  house  on  Staten  Island  and 
painted  it  white,  then  glazed  it  down  to  a  middle  tone. 
In  a  few  months  the  sun  had  faded  out  the  middle 
tone;  at  which  my  father  declared  that  there  was  no 
such  thing  as  a  middle  tone,  anyhow,  and  that  Page 
was  a  fool. 

While  at  Eagleswood  there  were  many  artists  who 
congregated  around  my  father,  and  he  had  some 
pupils.  Louis  C.  Tiffany  was  one,  and  Carleton 
Wiggins  another. 

About  this  time  a  syndicate  of  gentlemen, 
Fletcher  Harper,  Chauncey  Depew,  Clarke  Bell, 
and  others,  gave  my  father  a  commission  to  paint 
a  series  of  large  pictures,  and  he  chose  for  subjects 
"Bunyon's  Pilgrim's  Progress."  There  were  several 
pictures. 

I  remember  "The  Delectable  City"  and  "The  Val- 
ley of  the  Shadow  of  Death."    The  latter,  I  believe, 

68 


THE  EAGLESWOOD  PERIOD 

is  in  the  Brooklyn  Art  Museum,  and  belonged  to 
Fletcher  Harper. 

One  of  the  canvases  was  destroyed  in  the  Chicago 
fire,  and  another,  the  ''Delectable  City,"  was  de- 
stroyed or  damaged  in  an  accident  at  the  Madison 
Square  Garden. 

When  the  "Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death"  was 
exhibited  a  criticism  appeared  in  one  of  the  papers  that 
said  the  subject  was  overdone,  that  Inness  had  made 
it  horrible  by  painting  the  rocks  to  resemble  hideous 
forms,  reptiles  and  goblins.  My  father,  when  read- 
ing it,  said:  "Nonsense!  I  did  not  paint  any  such 
things";  but  when  he  saw  the  picture  again,  he  de- 
clared that  they  did  seem  to  take  such  shapes. 

In  1867  we  moved  from  Eagleswood  to  Brooklyn, 
where  several  more  or  less  uneventful  years  were 
passed.  My  father  was  painting  steadily.  Two  in- 
cidents stand  out  as  significant.  The  most  important 
was  father's  election  to  the  Academy  of  Design  in 
1868.  In  1853  he  had  been  made  an  Associate,  and  it 
took  the  academy  fifteen  years  to  realize  that  he  was 
worthy  of  full  honors. 

The  other  incident  was  more  in  the  nature  of  a 
humorous  situation,  yet  how  well  it  pictures  dear  old 
Pop!  He  was  very  proud  of  me,  not  because  I  was 
clever  and  smart,  because  I  was  not,  but  just  because 

69 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

I  was  his.  In  fact,  I  was  very  dull  in  school,  and  al- 
ways in  a  grade  far  beneath  me  in  years  and  size.  I 
attended  the  Adelphi  Academy  at  the  time  when  Mr. 
Lockwood  was  the  principal.  He  was  a  very  kind 
gentleman,  and  indulged  me  because  he  looked  upon 
me  as  rather  lacking,  and  would  let  me  spend  most  of 
my  time  in  the  studio,  where  I  was  a  great  favorite 
with  the  drawing-master.  I  was  about  fourteen  years 
of  age  when  my  father  found  this  out,  and  took  me  to 
the  Polytechnic,  and  the  interview  with  Dr.  Cochran 
was  rather  amusing.  Father  hated  this  sort  of  thing, 
and  would  have  had  my  mother  take  me  to  the  new 
school,  but  she  said  it  was  a  man's  duty,  and  he  must 
see  Dr.  Cochran  and  explain  about  the  studio.  Fa- 
ther was  very  nervous  and  embarrassed,  and,  as  was 
his  custom  when  embarrassed,  he  put  on  an  air  of 
gruff ness  to  cover  up  his  confusion. 

We  were  ushered  into  a  little  office.  After  waiting 
a  few  moments,  a  dapper  little  man,  emaculately 
groomed,  just  as  if  he  were  out  of  a  bandbox,  came  in 
and  made  a  stately  bow,  at  which  my  father  arose,  and 
in  a  very  rough  voice  said : 

"Dr.  Cochran?"  which  brought  forth  another  bow 
from  the  doctor. 

"Well,  Doctor  Cochran,  I  Ve  brought  this  boy  down 
here  to  see  if  you  can  drive  some  learning  into  him.  I 
want  him  to  learn  to  read  and  write.   He 's  been  up 

70 


THE  EAGLESWOOD  PERIOD 

at  the  Adelphi  Academy,  and  hasn't  learned  any- 
thing. I  don't  believe  he 's  a  fool  exactly,  but  they 've 
let  him  have  his  own  way  too  much.  Been  spending 
most  of  his  time  in  the  studio." 

"Ah,"  said  the  doctor,  "has  the  young  man  a  bent 
for  art?" 

"Yes,  I  suppose  he  has." 

"Well,  would  it  not  be  better  to  encourage  any 
strong  tendency  in  that  direction  that  the  young  man 
may  have?" 

"Ah,  I  '11  attend  to  all  that  when  the  time  comes," 
answered  my  father  in  a  gruff  voice. 

"Ah,  then,"  said  the  doctor,  who  was  growing  im- 
patient with  the  uncouth  manners  of  his  visitor,  "may 
I  ask  if  you  are  in  a  position  which  enables  you  to 
develop  his  art  tendencies?" 

"I  am ;  I  am  a  painter  myself." 

"Ah,  indeed.  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  did  n't  under- 
stand. I  know  most  of  our  artists,  but,  never  having 
met  you,  may  I  inquire  the  name?" 

"My  name  is  Inness." 

"Not  George  Inness?" 

"Yes,  George  Inness." 

"The  landscape-painter?" 

"Yes,"  replied  my  father,  "I  am  a  landscape- 
painter." 

At  this  the  whole  manner  of  the  doctor  changed. 

73 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

His  face  glowed  with  interest  as  he  sprang  up  and 
grasped  my  father  by  the  hand. 

"Mr.  Inness,"  he  said,  "I  cannot  express  to  you  the 
pleasure  of  this  meeting.  I  have  known  your  work 
for  years,  and  have  followed  it  with  most  intense  in- 
terest. In  fact,  on  several  occasions  I  have  prided 
myself  on  the  ability  to  recognize  your  work  when- 
ever I  saw  it,  and  on  one  occasion  I  entered  into  a  bet 
with  some  gentlemen  that  I  could  pick  out  a  George 
Inness  among  a  hundred  other  works.  The  bet  was 
for  a  dinner,  and  I  won  the  bet." 

Then  my  father  seemed  to  turn  into  another  man, 
another  being  entirely.  He  forgot  all  about  me  and 
his  mission ;  his  embarrassment  left  him.  He  nailed  the 
doctor  to  a  chair,  and  with  many  gesticulations  drove 
into  him  his  theories  of  art  and  religion.  The  doctor 
sat  perfectly  still,  not  uttering  a  word  until  my  father, 
becoming  quite  exhausted  from  his  exertions,  said: 

"Well,  Doctor  Cochran,  I  fear  I  have  taken  too 
much  of  your  valuable  time.    Will  you  take  the  boy  ?" 

"Go  right  on,  Mr.  Inness ;  I  am  intensely  interested 
in  what  you  say.  It  is  a  revelation  to  me,  and  I  want 
to  say  that  I  never  heard  a  better  sermon  in  my  life. 
Of  course  we  will  take  the  boy,  and  I  promise  you  that 
he  shall  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  studio.  I  am  per- 
fectly sure  he  will  find  a  competent  master  when  the 
proper  time  comes." 

74 


CHAPTER  VI 


FOREIGN  INFLUENCE 


ONCLUDING  that  foreign  subjects  would 
be  more  salable  than  domestic  ones,  Wil- 
liams &  Everett  induced  my  father  to  go 


abroad,  agreeing  to  take  his  pictures  at  stated  sums. 
So  in  the  spring  of  1870  we  sailed  for  the  Old  World, 
landing  at  Liverpool. 

We  stopped  in  London  and  Paris  only  a  few  days 
on  our  way  to  Marseilles,  where  we  embarked  for 
Civitavecchia,  going  from  there  to  Rome.  In  Rome 
my  father  took  a  studio  on  the  Via  Sistina  said  to  have 
been  once  occupied  by  Claude  Lorrain.  Our  first 
summer  in  Italy  was  spent  in  Tivoli,  where  father 
made  many  sketches  of  the  famous  olive-groves  of 
that  village,  reputed  to  be  over  a  thousand  years  old. 
We  spent  two  summers  at  Perugia,  one  at  Albano,  and 
one  at  Pieve  di  Cadore,  the  birthplace  of  Titian,  whom 
my  father  thought  the  greatest  colorist  that  ever  lived. 

Pop  always  had  a  romantic  streak  in  him,  and  took 
great  pleasure  in  visiting  the  birthplaces  of  famous 
men.  He  liked  to  browse  around  in  the  old 
places  where  they  lived  and  painted,  and  to  live 


75 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

over  in  his  imagination  the  lives  of  these  great  masters. 

What  a  time  he  would  have  had,  had  he  lived  in  the 
time  of  Titian,  and  had  had  a  score  or  two  of  pupils,  as 
those  fellows  had!  I  can  imagine  him,  mahlstick  in 
hand,  directing  the  building  of  a  picture.  He  would 
have  mapped  it  out  as  a  great  general  does  a  battle, 
then  he  would  have  directed  detachments  of  his  army 
of  pupils  to  attack  the  huge  canvas  at  different  points. 
"There,  A  ,  slam  in  a  thunder-cloud  in  the  right- 
hand  corner;  and  you,  B  ,  rush  a  battery  of  light 

down  in  that  middle  distance;  and  C  ,  keep  ham- 
mering away  at  the  foreground.  Never  mind  if  you 
are  out  of  tone,  we  '11  get  a  harmony  when  we  put  a 
glaze  over  the  whole  thing,  and  then  with  a  little  tick- 
ling up  here  and  there  with  pigment  we  will  have  fin- 
ished the  greatest  landscape  that  ever  was  painted." 
And  this  is  not  all  imaginary,  for  that  was  one  of  my 
father's  pet  theories.  He  thought  he  could  direct  any 
man  or  group  of  men  to  paint  in  this  way,  and  produce 
as  great  a  picture  as  he  could  paint  himself.  At  times 
he  seemed  to  be  obsessed  with  the  idea  that  painting  a 
picture  was  purely  mechanical,  needing  only  the  mas- 
ter brain  to  direct.  But  with  Pop  theory  and  prac- 
tice were  not  always  one  and  the  same  thing,  although 
in  some  instances  he  did  actually  put  this  particular 
theory  into  practice.  I  have  seen  him  preach  this 
theory  by  the  hour  and  bring  forth  the  most  logical  ar- 

76 


FOREIGN  INFLUENCE 

guments  to  prove  that  he  was  correct  in  his  deduc- 
tions, then  under  the  fire  of  inspiration  throw  theories, 
arguments,  and  everything  to  the  four  winds,  and 
paint  like  mad  in  exact  opposition  to  the  ideas  he  had 
expressed,  finally  admitting  that,  after  all,  "The  fel- 
low who  gets  the  bird  is  the  fellow  who  holds  the  gun." 

If  any  one  would  criticize  my  father's  works,  even 
though  he  did  not  know  where  the  next  meal  or  house 
rent  was  coming  from,  he  would  blow  out  in  a  passion 
of  abuse  and  lose  a  sale.  On  one  occasion  Marshall 
O.  Roberts,  a  big  New  York  financier,  came  to  his 
studio  in  Rome.  Father  had  two  canvases  which  he 
held  at  five  thousand  dollars  each,  and  which  pleased 
Mr.  Roberts  very  much. 

"Mr.  Inness,"  he  said,  "if  I  take  both  of  those  pic- 
tures, what  price  will  you  make  me?" 

"Ten  thousand  dollars,"  my  father  replied. 

"Well,  Mr.  Inness,  what  is  the  price  of  the  little 
one  on  the  easel?" 

"Two  thousand  dollars,"  answered  Pop. 

"Will  you  take  ten  thousand  dollars  for  the  three  ?" 

Pop  agreed,  although  the  commercial  aspect  of  the 
transaction  rankled,  and  the  bargain  was  made,  the 
purchase  to  be  consummated  on  Mr.  Roberts's  return 
to  Rome  from  a  tour  of  Egypt. 

The  next  day  a  member  of  the  Roberts  family  came 
to  see  the  pictures.    He  was  very  much  delighted, 

79 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

and  expressed  himself  as  being  greatly  pleased  that 
they  at  last  were  to  have  some  real  art  for  their  home 
in  New  York. 

"But,"  he  said,  "the  old  gentleman  is  kicking  at 
the  price  he  has  to  pay." 

At  this  my  father  burst  out: 

"Tell  the  gentleman  he  is  an  ass  to  talk  about  my 
prices  when  he  has  been  paying  much  larger  sums 
for  the  greatest  trash  that  ever  was  put  on  canvas." 

Evidently  the  message  was  delivered  to  Mr.  Rob- 
erts, as  requested,  and — well,  he  just  forgot  to  stop  in 
Rome  on  his  return  from  Egypt. 

Father  never  could  learn  to  be  politic.  Another 
time  when  a  prospective  purchaser  criticized  some- 
thing in  a  picture  which  he  was  considering,  father 
told  him  not  to  make  an  idiot  of  himself  by  talking 
of  something  he  was  absolutely  ignorant  of.  The 
sale  was  not  made,  and  father's  rent  was  still  due. 

I  have  to  laugh  when  I  recall  these  incidents,  which 
were  then  so  tragic.  I  remember  General  Alger  said 
to  me: 

"Your  father  was  a  very  violent  man,  was  he  not?" 
"My  father?   Why,  no;  he  was  as  gentle  as  a 
lamb." 

"Oh,"  he  replied,  "I  got  a  very  different  opinion  of 
him.  At  one  time  I  found  occasion  to  criticize  one 
of  his  pictures  and — " 

80 


FOREIGN  INFLUENCE 

"Oh,"  I  laughed;  "I  understand." 

And  another  time  when  a  man  who  is  known  to  be 
one  of  the  world's  richest  magnates  came  to  Pop's 
studio,  he  admired  a  certain  canvas  extravagantly  and 
asked  the  price,  which  was  given  him  as  two  thou- 
sand dollars. 

The  gentleman,  after  admiring  it  for  some  time, 
said: 

"Mr.  Inness,  I  will  give  you  fifteen  hundred  for  it." 

Father  went  to  the  easel,  removed  the  canvas,  and 
turned  it  face  to  the  wall. 

"Oh,  hold  on,  Mr.  Inness;  I  should  like  to  look  at 
that  picture  again." 

"You  will  have  to  excuse  me,"  replied  father,  "I 
am  not  selling  pictures  to-day.  I  am  very  busy,  and 
will  bid  you  good  day." 

After  our  stay  in  Italy  we  moved  on  to  France, 
making  our  headquarters  in  Paris,  where  father  had 
his  studio.  He  was  still  painting  for  Williams  & 
Everett.  One  picture  was  exhibited  at  the  Salon, 
an  Italian  subject;  but  it  was  "skyed"  and  attracted 
little  attention.  The  first  summer  in  France  was 
spent  at  Etretat. 

In  the  latter  part  of  1872  came  the  disastrous  fire  in 
Boston,  which  forced  Williams  &  Everett  to  suspend 
payment  to  my  father,  and  we  found  ourselves  again 
without  money.    Pop  was  now  compelled  to  make  a 

81 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

hurried  trip  back  to  the  States,  leaving  us  in  Paris 
until  he  could  make  some  financial  arrangement  simi- 
lar to  the  one  with  Williams  &  Everett.  He  cabled 
Williams  &  Everett  to  send  him  money,  as  the  fol- 
lowing letter  indicates: 

Liverpool,  Feb.  13,  1873 

My  Bear  Wife: 

I  have  just  received  your  two  letters  and  hasten  to  an- 
swer a  few  lines  before  leaving  for  the  boat.  Do  not  worry 
about  me,  as  I  am  well  provided  for  and  am  all  right.  I 
presume  that  you  have  received  the  letter  I  wrote  from 
London. 

I  shall  be  quite  as  well  satisfied  if  the  $1,000  is  not  sent, 
if  you  have  enough,  until  I  can  reach  Boston,  as  it  will  leave 
me  free  to  make  other  arrangements  if  desirable.  Williams 
will  probably  be  desirous  of  making  overtures  to  me,  and  in 
case  the  money  is  paid  I  shall  feel  delicate  in  working  from 
one  party  to  another.  As  soon  as  I  reach  Boston  I  will 
find  out  how  things  are  and  telegraph  you  money. 
Give  my  love  to  all  and  believe  me  your 

Affectionate  husband, 

Fear  nothing, 

George. 

Satisfactory  arrangements  were  not  made  with 
Williams  &  Everett,  however,  and  father  entered  into 
a  business  arrangement  with  Doll  &  Richards,  an- 
other Boston  firm. 

Before  leaving  Paris  my  mother  had  given  poor  old 
Pop  very  explicit  directions  as  to  his  appearance,  and 
told  him  that  she  had  packed  his  dress  clothes  in  the 

82 


FOREIGN  INFLUENCE 

bottom  of  his  trunk.  She  further  admonished  him  to 
take  them  out  immediately  upon  his  arrival  in  Boston, 
and  have  them  pressed,  as  he  would  very  probably  be 
invited  out. 

"Now  remember,  dear,  take  them  out.  Don't  for- 
get. And  remember  to  put  on  a  clean  shirt  and  col- 
lar. You  know  you  are  very  careless,  and  if  I  am  not 
there  to  look  after  you  I  don't  know  what  will  hap- 
pen." 

He  promised  faithfully  to  carry  out  these  instruc- 
tions, and  to  make  quite  as  much  of  a  dandy  of  him- 
self as  when  he  was  courting  her. 

Some  months  later  Mr.  Maynard  of  Boston  told 
me  of  a  dinner  which  he  gave  Pop  soon  after  he  ar- 
rived in  Boston. 

"The  dinner,"  he  said,  "was  a  large  one,  and  I  had 
invited  the  elite  to  meet  our  greatest  artist,  George 
Inness,  who  had  just  returned  from  Europe.  The 
guests  arrived,  and  dinner  was  announced,  but  the 
guest  of  honor  had  not  come.  We  waited,  and  I  be- 
came very  nervous.  The  steward  was  growing  very 
impatient,  the  dinner  was  getting  cold,  and  I  was  al- 
most beside  myself.  Finally  I  had  to  take  my  guests 
to  the  dining-room.  We  all  sat  rather  glum;  oc- 
casionally one  would  tell  a  story  of  some  eccentric 
fellow  he  had  known,  and  as  the  soup  and  then  the 

fish  was  served,  we  told  some  more,  and  after  the  en- 

85 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

tree  and  the  roast  had  gone,  of  tales  of  accident  and 
death ;  when  suddenly  the  doors  flew  open,  and  there 
stood  our  guest,  George  Inness.  He  was  quite  out 
of  breath  and  exclaimed : 

"  'I  beg  your  pardon,  Maynard.  I  am  late,  I  fear; 
but  the  fact  is  I  forgot  all  about  the  dinner.  But 
never  mind;  I  '11  join  in  right  here.  No,  thank  you; 
nothing,  please.  I  got  my  dinner  at  a  little  restau- 
rant before  I  remembered.  I  '11  just  have  some  des- 
sert.' His  hair  was  disheveled,  and  the  little  pea- 
jacket  that  he  was  wearing  was  stained  with  spots  of 
paint ;  but  he  began  to  talk,  and  he  talked  and  talked 
as  never  man  talked  before.  Of  color,  God,  tone,  the 
triumph  of  the  mind,  and  of  Swedenborg,  and  when 
the  party  finally  broke  up,  every  guest  was  in  a  state 
of  delight.  No  matter  whether  we  followed  him  or 
not,  he  was  most  entertaining.  His  gestures,  which 
at  times  threatened  to  play  havoc  with  the  china,  were 
eloquent.  The  dinner  was  a  great  success,  and  I 
would  not  have  missed  it  or  had  it  different  for  the 
greatest  picture  he  could  paint." 

We  joined  him  soon  after  this  in  Boston.  When 
father  signed  the  agreement  with  the  firm  of  Doll  & 
Richards,  he  did  so  without  reading  it,  and  if  he  had,  I 
doubt  if  he  would  have  understood  what  it  meant,  with 
its  whereases,  parties  of  the  first  part,  parties  of  the 
second  part,  to  wits,  and  to  have  and  to  holds,  so  help 

86 


FOREIGN  INFLUENCE 

me  Gods,  etc. ;  but  the  gist  of  the  agreement  was  that 
Doll  &  Richards  should  control  all  of  Inness's  works, 
and,  if  I  remember  right,  all  of  his  sketches,  tools, 
and  everything  that  was  his,  for  which  they  were  to 
guaranty  him  a  certain  sum  per  month.  Things  went 
well  for  a  few  months,  and  then  payments  stopped. 

I  happened  to  be  present  when  Doll  came  to  the 
studio  and  told  father  that  he  could  sell  nothing,  and 
therefore  could  give  him  no  more  money;  and  asked 
him  if  he  could  not  sell  something  himself.  To  which 
father  replied  that,  if  he  could,  he  certainly  would  not 
be  paying  the  firm  of  Doll  &  Richards  to  do  it  for  him. 
Things  were  pretty  bad,  and  one  day  Mr.  Maynard 
came  to  Pop  with  the  story  that  Doll  had  said  to  him 
that  he  had  the  knife  in  Inness  and  could  twist  it  at 
any  time,  and  advised  father  to  get  everything  away 
from  the  firm  as  soon  as  possible.  We  were  all  ex- 
cited. Father  went  to  his  old  friends,  Williams  & 
Everett,  who  agreed  to  give  him  four  thousand  dollars 
and  take  certain  canvases  as  security,  among  them 
"The  Barberini  Pines,"  which  was  then  in  our  studio, 
and  which  now  hangs  in  the  Metropolitan  Museum  of 
Art.  Then  he  went  to  New  York  to  see  what  ar- 
rangements could  be  made  with  John  Snedecor,  his  old 
New  York  dealer. 

Meanwhile  Mr.  Maynard  advised  me  to  get  the 
large  picture  away  as  soon  as  possible,  so  Williams  & 

87 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

Everett  sent  a  man  around  to  the  studio  that  evening, 
and  he  and  I  carried  the  big  canvas  down  Washing- 
ton Street  to  Williams  &  Everett's  store.  While  I 
was  gone,  Doll,  having  discovered  that  my  father  had 
gone  to  New  York  with  four  thousand  dollars  from 
Williams  &  Everett,  hurried  around  to  the  studio  and 
broke  in  the  door.  When  he  found  the  big  picture 
gone,  he  rushed  off  to  Maynard  and  declared  that 
George  Inness  was  an  absconder  and  a  thief  and  that 
he  would  have  him  locked  up.  Then  the  chase  began, 
and  Doll  caught  him  at  my  uncle's  home  in  Brooklyn. 
Doll  was  armed  with  a  warrant,  and  threatened  to 
lock  him  up  before  night  if  he  did  not  hand  over  the 
four  thousand  dollars. 

Poor  old  Pop  would  probably  have  given  it  to  him 
in  his  fright  had  not  my  uncle  found  a  magistrate  to 
accept  his  bond.  Then  "The  Barberini  Pines,"  for 
safe-keeping,  was  sent  to  Snedecor's  in  New  York, 
but  Doll  got  scent  of  it,  and  placed  an  attachment 
on  it. 

I  then  went  to  a  lawyer  in  Boston  with  the  Doll 
agreement.  The  attorney  said  it  would  not  hold. 
No  man  could  deed  away  his  life.  That  had  been 
proved  in  Venice  years  ago.  The  case  was  finally 
settled  out  of  court,  and  Doll  &  Richards  got  "The 
Barberini  Pines." 

My  father  did  not  return  to  Boston.    He  deter- 

88 


FOREIGN  INFLUENCE 

mined  to  try  the  New  York  field  once  more,  and  I 
stayed  in  Boston  to  close  up  the  business,  joining  him 
later. 

"The  Barberini  Pines"  was  one  of  those  pictures 
painted  according  to  the  theory  I  have  described.  It 
was  done  by  J.  A.  S.  Monks,  me,  and  Pop.  I  put 
Jack  first  and  then  bring  in  myself  because  Pop 
painted  on  it  last.  But  I  doubt  if  Jack  could  find  the 
part  he  painted ;  as  for  my  part,  I  give  up  all  claim  to 
having  helped  the  master.  Jack  Monks  was  a  pupil 
of  my  father  while  we  were  in  Boston,  and  we  three 
worked  together  in  the  studio  over  the  Boylston  Bank 
on  Washington  Street.  Jack  is  now  a  celebrated 
painter  of  Boston. 

The  Boston  "Transcript"  some  years  ago  published 
the  following  interview  with  Jack  Monks : 

Mr.  Monks'  acquaintance  with  the  master  began  in  a  way 
that  he  is  naturally  and  honestly  proud  to  recall.  Inness 
had  dropped  into  the  studio  of  George  N.  Cass  and  his  eye 
had  fallen  upon  the  realistic  study  of  a  willow  tree. 

"Who  painted  that?"  he  demanded  in  his  brusk  manner. 

"A  pupil  of  mine,  a  young  beginner  named  Monks,"  re- 
plied Cass. 

"Tell  him  to  come  over  and  see  me." 

A  few  days  later  young  Monks  presented  himself  at  the 
new  studio  of  Inness.  His  first  reception  at  interrupting  the 
eccentric  painter  at  his  work  was  somewhat  disconcerting, 
but  as  soon  as  it  was  explained  that  he  was  the  painter  of 
the  willow  tree  at  Cass's,  the  great  man's  manner  instantly 

91 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

changed;  he  begged  the  young  man  to  move  in  at  once  and 
bring  over  all  of  his  things,  and  when  this  was  done  requested 
him  to  place  his  easel  in  the  same  room,  to  help  himself  to 
materials,  overhaul  the  sketches,  and  in  all  ways  to  treat 
the  premises  as  his  own.  This  intimate  companionship  lasted 
throughout  Inness's  residence  in  Boston,  including  a  paint- 
ing campaign  in  the  White  Mountains,  and  was  renewed 
later  when  both  artists  were  in  New  York  City. 

Mr.  Monks'  affectionate  reverence  for  his  great  master  is 
unbounded,  but  he  admits  that  his  advice  and  teaching  were 
not  seldom  bewildering.  It  was  as  difficult  for  the  younger 
man  to  follow  the  elder's  instructions  as  to  model  any  par- 
ticular methods  upon  so  erratic  and  many-sided  a  style.  One 
day  Inness  would  insist  that  the  foundation  or  keynote  of 
every  landscape  should  be  black;  another  day  it  would  be 
red  that  he  believed  to  be  the  true  basis.  Having  had  the 
advantage  of  no  technical  or  academic  instruction  he  was 
continually  sounding  about  and  feeling  his  way  for  himself 
through  intense  ratiocination  on  art  and  ceaseless  studies  of 
nature.  He  often  lamented  this  lack  of  early  experience  in 
the  school  work  of  art,  and  acknowledged  that  it  would  have 
been  a  shorter  cut  to  his  tardy  success  and  have  saved  him 
an  incalculable  amount  of  labor  and  discouragement  while 
he  was  thus  finding  out  the  limitations  and  possibilities  of 
painting.  But  it  may  well  be  questioned  whether  quite  the 
same  results  of  his  powerful  inventiveness  and  originality 
would  have  been  developed  had  he  been  spared  the  strug- 
gles which  finally  matured  his  Titanic  strength. 

Inness  painted  very  rapidly,  and  if  his  pictures  could  have 
been  taken  away  from  him  at  the  proper  moment,  Mr.  Monks 
says,  he  would  have  completed  a  painting  a  day.  But  he 
would  follow  a  sunset  through  its  successive  phases,  until 
it  became  a  maze  of  contradictions.    He  would  sometimes 

92 


FOREIGN  INFLUENCE 

change  a  broad  sunlight  effect  of  one  day  into  a  moonlight 
or  "gray  day"  the  next.  He  would  paint  from  a  sketch 
two  years  old  with  the  same  fervor,  or  more,  than  he  would 
paint  before  nature ;  and  yet  he  was  a  most  faithful  and  ar- 
dent student  of  nature,  and  would  dwell  with  tremendous 
force  and  effect  upon  the  minutest  details  when  he  felt  them 
to  be  essential  to  an  effect  or  when  making  studies  for  future 
use.  On  the  other  hand  he  would  revel  in  the  "interpreta- 
tion," as  he  called  it,  of  the  merest  pencil  sketch  of  another 
artist,  or  in  painting  from  a  few  wild  scratches  of  his  own 
made  at  random  to  see  what  he  could  evolve  from  them. 
Per  contra,  he  once  studied  with  enormous  care  an  oak  tree 
against  a  brilliant  sunset,  painting  the  leaves  so  that  they 
almost  seemed  to  rustle.  He  could  get  more  varieties  of 
foliage  into  a  picture,  so  as  to  be  distinguished  even  in  the 
distance,  than  any  painter  of  our  day.  He  had  a  touch  for 
each  kind  of  tree  that  expressed  it  instantly  and  perfectly. 
In  painting  a  large  picture  before  a  great  subject,  as  for 
instance  Mount  Washington,  he  would  change  it  every  day, 
so  sensitive  and  receptive  was  he  to  every  impression  and 
eager  to  include  every  phase,  and  leave  it  at  the  last  a  mass 
of  "mud."  At  a  safe  distance,  however,  both  of  space  and 
time,  and  with  only  his  notes  to  rely  upon  he  would  complete 
a  masterpiece  upon  the  same  subject. 

"I  well  remember,"  said  Mr.  Monks,  "the  day  we  went  out 
to  make  our  first  sketch  together.  He  gave  minute  instruc- 
tions about  drawing  in  the  lines  and  frotting  in  the  masses 
and  we  went  to  work.  After  an  hour  of  diligent  silence,  Mr. 
Inness  came  around  to  my  picture  and  exclaimed,  'By  Jove, 
you 've  got  it  better  than  I.'  Then  he  added,  'Now  paint  in 
the  mountain  solid  for  background,'  and  when  this  instruc- 
tion, diametrically  opposed  to  what  had  preceded,  had  been 
executed,  with  the  dire  result  to  be  foreseen  under  any  ordi- 

93 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

nary  methods  of  painting,  the  hilarity  of  the  great  man  at 
the  tyro's  discomfiture  was  like  that  of  a  mischievous  boy." 
Another  characteristic  incident  was  the  scene  in  the  Boston 
studio  at  the  execution  of  the  great  Inness  canvas  intended 
for  the  Philadelphia  exhibition — which,  by  the  way,  was  not 
sent.  He  had  brought  home  from  Italy  the  study  for  the 
picture — which  represented  the  grounds  of  a  palace  or  villa 
overlooking  the  Mediterranean  with  an  imposing  procession 
of  straight  stone  pines,  which  was  always  a  favorite  effect 
of  his.  He  wanted  a  new  sky  painted  into  this  picture,  and 
Monks  and  his  son  George  were  given  a  large  quantity  of 
the  blue  color  selected,  and,  mounting  stepladders,  worked 
carefully  the  whole  sky  over,  while  Inness  busied  himself  be- 
low on  the  foreground.  Towards  night  the  result  of  this 
triplicate  effort  was  viewed  through  a  looking-glass,  and 
through  the  legs  of  the  painters,  according  to  the  custom  of 
artists,  and  the  atmospheric  effect  pronounced  simply  im- 
mense. The  next  morning  Inness  rose  at  an  early  hour  and 
before  either  of  his  collaborators  had  arrived,  the  entire  sky 
had  been  changed  to  a  gray  and  with  it  the  whole  color 
scheme  of  the  picture. 

Inness  was  not,  Mr.  Monks  says,  as  might  be  supposed  from 
the  fluency  of  his  utterance  and  the  vigor  of  his  thinking  on 
many  subjects,  an  incessant  talker  at  his  work.  When  he 
talked  it  was  always  on  some  question  of  the  principles  of  art 
or  some  phase  of  nature ;  it  was  never  about  himself  or  any- 
body else.  He  had  no  personal  gossip  or  small  talk  about  his 
contemporaries,  no  envy,  jealousy  or  grudges,  although  at 
times  his  criticism  was  severe,  and  even  savage  upon  popular 
favorites;  entirely  on  general  grounds,  however,  and  from 
serious  conviction,  not  spite.  He  was  nobody's  fool  in  busi- 
ness matters,  but  was  generous  to  a  remarkable  degree  to- 
wards any  cause  or  person  interesting  him.    His  considera- 

94 


FOREIGN  INFLUENCE 

tion  and  painstaking  in  the  teaching  he  gave  Mr.  Monks  (he 
never  took  pupils  as  a  regular  thing,  he  would  never  have  a 
customer  even  in  his  studio  that  he  did  not  like)  are  looked 
back  to  now  as  something  beautiful  and  extraordinary  by  its 
recipient.  He  once  came  to  his  studio  when  business  was 
blue  with  the  young  painter,  and  within  two  hours  a  dealer 
had  been  sent  who  cheered  things  up ;  but  Inness  absented 
himself  for  a  fortnight  in  order  not  to  be  thanked. 


m 


CHAPTER  VII 


NEW  YORK 


o 


UR  nomadic  life  had  not  been  without  bene- 
fit, for  the  influences  gathered  at  different 
points  had  developed  my  father's  own 


style,  and  when  he  returned  to  New  York  he  found 
that  even  there  his  weight  was  beginning  to  be  felt,  al- 
though financially  he  was  by  no  means  out  of  the 
woods.  In  our  various  wanderings  we  had  not  yet 
found  the  elusive  haven  known  as  "Easy  Street." 

Times  were  still  hard  for  both  of  us,  Pop  selling  a 
picture  occasionally  for  a  small  bit,  and  I  making  a 
sort  of  living  at  illustrating.  More  than  once  in  those 
years  I  had  to  loan  my  father  my  watch  to  pawn  with 
his,  so  that  the  rent  might  be  paid.  But  how  rich  those 
years  were  in  other  things!  Grand  achievements, 
grand  ideas  immortalized  on  canvas!  Grand  com- 
panionship with  my  father ! 

Of  these  later  days  I  can  talk  much  more  intimately 
because  the  threads  of  my  own  life  are  so  interwoven 
with  those  of  his.  These  things  were  of  vital  interest 
and  concerned  me  often  as  truly  as  they  did  him,  par- 


96 


NEW  YORK 

ticularly  in  New  York,  where  I,  too,  was  reaching  out 
for  self-expression  along  the  same  lines.  As  I  sit 
here  and  write  of  those  days  a  flood  of  memories  comes 
back  to  me.  I  can  see  my  father  so  plainly  in  all 
phases  of  his  life.  Many-sided,  versatile  Pop! 
Truly  a  contradiction,  as  gentle  as  a  lamb  and  as  fero- 
cious as  a  lion.  Sensitive,  introspective,  absent- 
minded,  and  yet  light-hearted  and  fun-loving  and  un- 
der all  conditions  consumed  with  a  passionate  belief 
in  his  own  destiny  and  an  intense  desire  for  its  fulfil- 
ment. No  matter  what  his  mood,  the  desire  for  self- 
expression  surmounted  everything.  Nor  was  his  ex- 
pression limited  to  paint  and  canvas.  The  same 
happy,  joyous  mood  that  produced  one  of  his  fresh 
spring  landscapes,  telling  of  love  and  immortality, 
brought  from  his  pen  this  poem,  called  Exaltation: 

Sing  joyfully! 
Earth-bound  no  more, 
We  rise. 

Creation  speaks  anew 
In  brighter  tones. 
Life  now  enthrones 
Its  imaged  forms, 
Winged  with  a  joy  that 
Ne'er  from  nature  grew. 

Sing  joyfully! 
The  Lord  has  come. 
We  live. 

97 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 


Released,  the  spirit  flies, 
Robed  with  the  light 
Above  earth's  night, 
A  symphony. 

We  sweep  along  in  song  that  never  dies. 

Sing  joyfully ! 
Bright  nature  lives 
In  us. 

Thought,  sight,  and  sound, 
Mind — all  are  one. 
To  gentle  souls 

We  whisper  thought  echoes  of  loves  profound. 

Sing  joyfully! 
Life's  sympathies 
Speak  truth. 
Doubts  but  disease. 
Resurrection  is  affection, 
Spirit  wakening, 

From  earth's  tides  to  voyage  o'er  brighter  seas. 

Sing  joyfully! 

A  real  world  we  see. 

Earth's  meadows  and  its  hills 

Within  thy  heart 

Their  joys  impart 

To  us  as  well  as  thee. 

Sing  joyfully ! 

God  all  space  fills. 

Or  this,  called  "Address  of  the  Clouds  to  the 
Earth": 

98 


o 
f 
o 

o 

an 


NEW  YORK 

We  have  wept  our  burden ;  we  have  filled  thy  streams. 

Thy  fields  are  vital  with  the  greenness  of  a  freshened  life,  O 

Earth,  our  brother. 
And  now  we  court  the  winds,  hilarious  in  our  wedded  joy. 
O'er  thy  high-reaching  lulls  we  break  in  varied  forms, 
And  make  thy  groves  and  meadows  ring  in  joyous  laugh 
At  our  black  shadows  as  we  pass. 
Soon  wijl  we  join  ourselves  in  softened  forms, 
And,  far  extended  on  thy  horizon,  lie  stretched  along  in 

sweep  repose, 
As  pearly  pendants  to  thy  distant  mountain-peaks, 
Thy  hills  revealed,  and  all  thy  body  bathed  in  shining  light, 
We  throw  our  kisses  at  thee  as  a  vap'rous  breath. 

While  in  the  spirit  of  introspection  or  dramatic  in- 
tensity one  could  imagine  the  storm-clouds  gathering 
on  his  canvas,  creatures  of  his  very  depth  of  thought 
and  dynamic  action.  "As  a  man  thinks,  so  is  he,"  can 
be  truly  spoken  of  George  Inness.  Many  times  he 
said  to  me: 

"George,  my  love  for  art  is  killing  me,  and  yet  it 
is  what  keeps  me  alive.  It  is  my  blessing  and  my 
curse." 

In  this  poem,  which  is  called  "Destiny,"  one  feels 
the  deep  searching  of  his  soul : 

O  Being,  wilt  thou  tell  me  what  I  am  to  thee  and  thou  to 
me? 

When  all  Nature  bows  beneath  the  load  of  world-enforced 
cares 

My  spirit  weeps  within  the  close  circumference  of  a  with- 

101 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

ered  heart ;  and  then  necessity,  a  giant  form,  intrudes  upon 
my  sight. 

Me,  with  his  iron  pressure  baring,  as  in  prison  bound, 
from  all  those  joys  which  made  this  now  so  creeping  time 
pass  with  the  rapid  stride  with  which  the  bounding  blood  of 
youth  doth  ever  travel.  While  with  a  chill  monotony  his 
clammy  breath  falls  on  my  ear  in  tones  that  shrivel  all  my 
thoughts  to  one  fell  word,  which  echoes  through  the  empty 
chambers  of  my  soul,  nor  leaves  a  cranny  where  my  conscious- 
ness can  hide  itself  from  the  dread  sound  of  destiny. 

Elect  not  whither  thou  shalt  go,  for  thou  art  bound,  for- 
ever prison  bound,  by  me.  I — I  am  destiny!  And  yet  my 
quickened  conscience  tells  me  I  am  free. 

Child  of  my  love,  son  of  that  womb  which  is  my  other  self, 
speak  not  against  decree ;  for  law  is  thy  necessity,  and  as  de- 
cree goes  forth,  so  tireless  mind  builds  it  a  home.  That  home 
is  thee.  Thou  art  thine  own  decree,  yet  see  it  not,  for  youth 
is  blind  to  what  is  ever  near  us,  thou  the  present  heat  or  cold 
of  life.    And  such  is  thy  decree. 

My  footsteps  sound  along  the  shores  of  time,  the  meas- 
ure of  thy  love.  The  note  is  low,  nor  is  it  in  the  power  of 
sound  to  form  a  sweeter  harmony  than  that  which  makes  my 
step  decree  time's  law  to  every  occupant  of  nature's  wide  do- 
main. 

I  am  thy  destiny,  and  I  destine  thee  to  be  thine  own  decree. 
Yet  never  wilt  thou  touch  the  note  that  love  decrees  to  thee 
till  in  thine  own  decree  and,  as  with  me,  so  is 't  with  thee.  All 
law  is  mine,  and  what  is  mine  my  love  bestows,  nor  can  with- 
hold itself  from  being  what  it  is  to  thee. 

My  law  is  thy  necessity,  yet  what  I  give  to  thee  is  thine  to 
use  as  best  shall  see  thee  fit.  Necessity  is  not  the  giant  of 
thy  fears,  but  law  compelling  all,  create  to  meet  thy  heart's 
desires. 


102 


NEW  YORK 


I  am  thy  life.  To  live  is  first  necessity,  and  life  I  give. 
There  is  no  absolute  to  thee  but  me.  My  movement  is  crea- 
tion, and  creation  is  that  other  self  where  I  have  formed  my 
womb.  There  do  I  cease  to  be  myself,  and  give  to  thee  the 
touch  that  sets  thee  free,  and  brings  thee  to  the  knowledge  of 
a  world  which  I  inhabit  not,  but  where  I  do  provide  such  im- 
ageries as  shall  convince  thy  being.  Consciousness  of  the 
first  truth  which  I  create,  reality — there  I  am  nearer  to  thee 
than  thyself,  hidden  within  the  consciousness  of  being,  in 
what  I  am — life. 

I  cause  all  things  to  appear  to  thee.  I  move  in  thee.  To 
touch,  to  know  that  law  arrests  desire,  here  to  create  in 
thee,  nor  does  allow  its  energy  to  waste  itself  from  thee,  but 
so  returns  it  all  that  in  the  consciousness  of  me  thou  'rt  con- 
scious of  thyself,  thou  'rt  free. 

Did  I  who  called  thee  into  life  impose  the  unit  of  my  per- 
son on  thy  every  sense?  No  image,  then,  could  meet  thy 
gaze,  no  sense  of  touch  be  thine.  Thou  'dst  cease  to  choose 
to  be.  But  through  the  varied  forms  which  I  create  by  my 
infinity  I  offer  thee  the  power  of  choice,  and  so  from  it, 
through  nature,  can  redeem  thy  mortal  thought  to  learn  those 
truths  within  the  bounds  of  which  my  all-creating  will  may 
lead  thy  spirit  upward  in  eternal  flight  through  worlds  un- 
known to  earthly  eye  or  touch. 

There  where  I  rest  in  thee,  as  consciousness  in  all,  I  the 
substance  of  the  world  create,  do  thou  gaze,  and  so  excite  de- 
sire, that  thou  of  thine  own  life's  necessity  may  'st  choose ; 
for  from  the  point  where  I  conjoin  in  you  of  my  full  heart 
I  give  the  will  to  thine  own  choice,  which  filled,  my  spirit 
moves  to  thine  own  joy,  there  to  be  free.  Thus  will  is  free, 
for  unto  every  living  thing  my  love  goes  forth,  that  they  may 
take  as  theirs  what  yet  is  mine.  This  dual  power  of  which  I 
am  the  sole  and  only  being  I  represent  to  thee,  in  that  thou 

103 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

art  the  counterpart  of  yet  another  self  with  whom  in  union 
thou  may  'st  ever  grow  and  never  full  the  point  attain  where 
you  are  perfect  one.  So  do  I  in  all  nature  image  forth  my- 
self that  there  may  form  a  law  which,  as  men  multiply,  shall 
serve  to  guide  these  yet  unborn  to  endless  time  to  that  eter- 
nal destiny  which  love  in  them  shall  form.  As  unto  life  is 
she  thine  own  desire  counterpart,  so  is  thyself  to  me.  From 
thy  desire  is  formed  the  image  of  thy  choice,  where  housed 
in  form  as  plays  your  nature  love,  quick  memory  builds  the 
image  of  thy  nature's  self,  the  female  of  thy  will.  To  wor- 
ship here  is  then  to  love,  and  in  the  fond  embrace,  where  light 
should  dwell,  and  understanding  form  an  Eden  for  the  soul, 
thou  givest  life  to  fiery  form,  create  of  thought  alone,  who 
bind  thee  with  a  triple  chain  of  fancied  ills,  and  turn  the 
Eden  where  I  destined  thee  into  a  hell  of  fear,  where  trem- 
bling terrors  mock  my  words  of  love  and  turn  thy  life  to 
hate.  The  serpent  tongue  of  lust  beguiles  with  logic  form 
thy  selfhood's  self  to  meet  thee  with  the  fruit  of  fate,  to 
eat  of  which  is  death. 

Thus  is  thy  nature  formed  to  be  the  subject  of  a  choice  in 
which  no  whit  of  evil  is  but  good  to  grow  in  thee  in  varied 
forms  when  thou  dost  look  to  me  and  know  that  I  am  life,  not 
thee.  I  to  provide,  I  to  fulfil  what  through  thy  conscious  be- 
ing thou  shalt  feel  is  thine,  yet  know  is  mine.  Then  shall 
my  law  as  truth  thine  understanding  fill  with  light,  and  in 
its  glow  my  will  in  thee  with  bow  and  spear,  the  serpent  of 
deceit  shalt  drive  from  out  the  precincts  of  the  mind  and 
every  minion  thought  that  fouls  the  aim  of  life  thy  lightening 
will,  with  loud  resonant  sound,  shall  clear  away,  and  give  me 
thee  and  paradise. 

Throughout  his  whole  life  he  was  as  plastic  as  clay 
in  my  mother's  hands.    He  loved  her  with  an  over- 

104 


NEW  YORK 

whelming  love,  and  had  she  been  less  wise  in  her  gentle 
guidance,  the  world  might  never  have  known  George 
Inness.  Throughout  their  struggles  and  trials  she 
was  his  counselor,  watching  him  and  guarding  him 
with  the  tenderest  love.  He  depended  on  her  for  ev- 
erything, from  the  arranging  of  his  necktie  to  the  solv- 
ing of  his  deep  metaphysical  problems.  He  was  per- 
fect in  her  eyes,  and  their  life  was  beautiful.  I  have 
never  seen  anything  more  beautiful.  Often  right  up 
to  the  close  of  their  lives  I  have  seen  them  go  off  hand 
in  hand  like  two  lovers.  He  talked  to  her  of  his 
theories  and  ideals,  which  were  often  very  involved, 
and  whether  she  understood  all  of  them  or  not,  she 
made  him  feel  that  she  did.  The  depth  of  his  emo- 
tions is  sounded  in  the  following  poem : 

A  spirit  came  to  me  last  night  and  said : 

"I 've  seen  the  working  of  thy  mind  in  thought. 

As  flowering  trees  within  our  worlds,  they  give  out  odor, 

And  when  breezes  from  our  Lord  among 

Their  branches  move  their  leaves  to  gentle  rustling 

They  give  out  with  its  smell  soft, 

Zephyr  sounds  that  yet  are  never  sad, 

But  rise  into  a  clearer  tone  at  times 

Like  summer  music. 

"There  is  again  a  gloaming  light 
Which  creeps  along  what  seems  the 
Understructure  of  our  home, 
When  questions  agitate  they  mind  and  all 

105 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

Thy  brain  is  laboring  with  the  hard  and  fearful 
Logic  of  creation's  mystery. 
We  see  the  laborer  in  the  morning  dawn 
Delving  with  necessary  toil  the  charitable  globe. 
And  from  the  fullness  of  our  souls  let  tear-drops  fall, 
Quickening  the  dews  of  love  in  tender  sympathy  at  the  mas- 
culine endeavor. 
But  yet  we  love  the  music  most." 

The  spirit  turned,  and  then  revealed  the  features  of  an 
early  day 

When  arm  in  arm  we  blessed  the  rising  sun  and  cheered 

ourselves  in  one  another's  love  as  day  declined. 
One  golden  sunset  found  myself  alone. 

Since  then  she  said  the  chord  that  bound  us  one,  to  outward 

eye  unseen,  has  only  finer  spun, 
And  now  within  thy  brain  I  see  the  heart 
I  loved  in  its  reality. 

Nor  age  to  pale  the  fire,  nor  poverty,  nor  any  ill 

That  earth  can  show  to  force  itself  between  what  thou  art 

to  me 
And  I  to  thee. 

How  good  is  God,  and  now  with  all  these  years  of  snow  I,  too, 

can  say, 
How  good  is  God! 

I  deem  it  not  inappropriate  to  quote  here  from  the 
Boston  "Transcript,"  which  interprets  George  Inness 
not  as  a  master  technician,  but  as  a  genius  who  has 
caught  that  deep  spiritual  significance  of  art  which 
poured  itself  out  freely,  upon  his  canvases,  and  welded 
his  art  and  religion  into  one  grand  passion. 

106 


NEW  YORK 

George  Inness's  landscapes  are  the  best  painted  in  our 
time  and  country,  in  many  instances  the  best  painted  in  any 
time  or  country,  because  of  the  qualities  of  temperament 
with  which  the  artist  is  endowed ;  and  as  it  is  these  qualities 
of  temperament  revealed  in  the  work  which  mark  the  produc- 
tions of  all  great  artists,  and  set  them  apart  from  the  com- 
monplace, the  mediocre  and  the  merely  clever,  it  is  proper  to 
inquire,  with  a  view  of  obtaining  so  much  of  an  insight  as 
may  be  possible  into  the  make-up  of  what  we  call  genius. 
What  were  these  innate  qualities,  the  sources  whence  sprung 
so  much  that  was  new  and  fine  and  powerful  and  grand? 
Undoubtedly  such  an  inquiry  involves  something  of  a  study, 
not  only  of  Inness's  own  characteristics  as  an  artist,  but  also 
of  the  universal  attributes  of  the  artistic  temperament. 
The  great  human  reservoirs  from  which  the  world  draws 
its  masterpieces  of  art  as  thoughtlessly  as  it  draws  a  cup  of 
water  from  a  faucet  are  fed  by  many  subterranean  springs, 
springs  which  flow  spontaneously,  freely,  irresistibly,  always 
giving,  joyous  to  be  giving,  without  price  but  not  without 
terrible  cost  to  the  giver.  These  springs  are  the  vital  ele- 
ments of  the  human  heart  and  brain,  transmuted  into  ma- 
terial forms  and  hues  of  imperishable  beauty  by  the  miracle 
of  creative  passion.  The  mainspring  of  a  great  art  is  the 
master  passion  of  love,  the  power  of  exaltation,  the  suscep- 
tibility to  a  great  and  uplifting  emotion,  a  devine  flight  of  the 
soul.  To  be  a  landscape  painter  of  the  George  Inness  stamp 
means  the  possession  of  a  sensitiveness  almost  morbid,  of  a 
power  of  vision  extra  natural,  of  a  susceptibility  to  certain 
phases  of  earths  beauty  so  keen  as  to  nearly  elevate  that 
beauty  to  a  celestial  plane ;  it  means  that  seeing  is  a  pleasure 
so  rapturous  that  it  borders  upon  pain ;  it  means  to  be  pos- 
sessed by  a  ruling  passion  that  leaves  no  room  for  any  other 
interest,  pursuit  or  theme  under  the  sun ;  it  means  that  sick- 

107 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

ness,  affliction,  poverty,  hardships,  reverses,  disappointments 
are  as  nothing  weighed  in  the  balance  against  art ;  it  means 
the  daily  pageant  of  sunrise,  of  high  noon,  of  sunset,  of  eve- 
ning, glorious  beyond  all  description,  filling  the  heart,  filling 
the  cup  of  life  to  overflowing,  leaving  only  one  supreme  de- 
sire, to  paint  it  all  as  it  is,  to  paint  it  and  then  die. 

Of  necessity  my  mother  became  the  manager  and 
banker  of  the  family.  It  was  impossible  for  father  to 
keep  money.  There  were  numerous  impecunious  art- 
ists around  New  York  who,  when  they  heard  that 
Pop  had  sold  a  picture,  would  come  to  him  with  tales 
of  destitution  and  poverty,  with  disastrous  results  to 
Pop ;  so  it  was  finally  decided  to  have  all  checks  made 
directly  payable  to  my  mother,  who  held  the  purse- 
strings  thereafter. 

This  letter,  written  from  Scranton,  Pennsylvania, 
serves  to  show  his  dependence  upon  her : 

Scranton,  Sept.,  1855 

My  dearest  wife: 

Above  all  things  in  the  world  I  would  love  to  see  you.  I 
have  to  think  of  you  the  more  that  I  am  in  trouble.  I  left 
my  baggage  at  St.  John's  and  walked  to  Stroudsburg.  The 
scamp  never  sent  it.  I  left  for  Scranton  with  the  promise 
from  the  stage  proprietor  that  it  should  be  sent  to  me  the 
next  day.  It  has  not  come,  and  I  shall  now  be  at  expense  to 
get  it.  I  had  to  buy  a  shirt  and  other  things,  so  that  my 
money  is  almost  gone.  Send  me  ten  dollars.  I  fear  I  shall 
need  it.  You  will  have  to  wait  until  I  can  send  you  money 
or  until  I  return.    There  is  no  other  way. 

108 


NEW  YORK 

I  kiss  you  a  thousand  times,  my  Love,  and  will  hasten  to 
you  as  soon  as  possible.  Kiss  my  little  ones  for  me.  I  will 
write  you  a  long  letter  soon. 

Your  affectionate  husband, 

George  Inness. 

This  trip  to  Scranton  was  made  in  the  pot-boiling 
days  of  his  career,  and  was  for  the  purpose  of  making 
a  painting  of  the  first  roundhouse  on  the  D.  L.  &  W. 
Railroad,  which  was  to  be  used  for  advertising. 

There  was  in  reality  only  one  track  at  the  time  run- 
ning into  the  roundhouse,  but  the  president  of  the  road 
insisted  on  having  four  or  five  painted  in,  easing  his 
conscience  by  explaining  that  the  road  would  even- 
tually have  them. 

Pop  protested,  but  the  president  was  adamant,  and 
there  was  a  family  to  support,  so  the  tracks  were 
painted  in. 

In  the  busy  years  which  followed,  the  picture  was 
virtually  forgotten  until  thirty  years  or  more  after- 
ward, when  my  mother  and  father  were  in  the  City  of 
Mexico,  they  discovered  the  old  canvas  in  a  junk-shop. 
The  shopkeeper  knew  nothing  of  its  origin  or  who 
painted  it,  and  explained  that  he  had  boilght  it  with  a 
job  lot  of  office  furnishings,  and  would  be  glad  to  sell 
it  cheap.  So  my  father  purchased  it  for  old  time's 
sake.  As  he  walked  out  of  the  shop  he  said,  "Do  you 
remember,  Lizzie,  how  mad  I  was  because  they  made 
me  paint  the  name  on  the  engine  ?" 

111 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

George  Inness  was  generous  to  a  fault,  and  no  man 
in  the  world  was  more  easily  imposed  upon. 

At  the  time  he  had  a  studio  in  the  old  Dodworth 
Hall,  New  York,  there  was  a  man  who  frequented  the 
studios  and  made  his  living  by  his  wits,  turning  his 
hand  to  anything  that  would  bring  him  a  penny,  hon- 
est or  otherwise,  usually  otherwise.  Sometimes  he 
preached,  sometimes  he  traveled  from  town  to  town 
lecturing  on  the  care  of  the  teeth,  hair,  and  feet,  and 
selling  his  credulous  listeners  ground-up  brick-dust, 
bits  of  soap  or  lard,  for  their  particular  ailment;  and 
again  he  sold  bits  of  scented  cork  supposed  to  possess 
the  peculiar  property  of  inducing  sleep,  which  he  said 
he  had  gathered  in  the  Holy  Land,  but  in  reality  in 
an  old  bottle-works  in  New  Jersey.  In  his  leisure 
moments  he  visited  the  artists  to  talk  of  art  and  to 
smoke  their  tobacco.  One  day  he  rushed  into  my 
father's  studio,  his  face  the  picture  of  despair. 
Throwing  himself  into  a  chair  he  cried:  "O  my  God! 
my  wife,  my  poor  dear  wife,  the  mother  of  my  little 
children!  God  help  them!  I  cannot.  O  George, 
what  shall  I  do?  I  fear  I  will  kill  myself."  And  he 
buried  his  face  in  his  hands  and  sobbed  like  a  child. 
Father,  wild  with  anguish,  sprang  up  and  grasped  him 

by  the  shoulders. 

"What  is  it?"  he  cried.    "Your  wife  you  said— tell 

me,  is  she — is  she — dead?" 

112 


NEW  YORK 

"No,  George,  not  dead,  not  yet,  but  she  soon  will 
be,  I 'm  afraid.  I  left  her  with  two  doctors,  and  I 
have  no  money  to  pay  for  either  medicine  or  food.  O 
God,  what  shall  I  do !  Where  can  I  find  a  friend  in 
this  hour  of  need!" 

Father  felt  in  his  pockets  and  found  nothing. 

"I  have  no  money,"  he  cried;  "but  wait,  old  man,  be 
calm,  wait  here."  With  tears  streaming  down  his 
face  he  dashed  out  of  the  studio  and  to  the  art  rooms  of 
John  Snedecor,  on  Broadway.  "John,"  he  cried  fran- 
tically, "I  must  have  money;  give  me  money,  quick! 
It  is  a  case  of  life  and  death.  I  must  have  it  now,  not 
a  minute  to  lose.  I  '11  pay  you  back ;  have  n't  time  to 
explain."  Snedecor  thrust  twenty  dollars  into  his 
hand,  and  he  rushed  back  to  the  studio.  "Here,  man," 
he  shouted,  "take  this,  and  God  be  with  you.  Hurry, 
for  God's  sake!" 

When  he  had  left,  Pop  collapsed.  He  was  com- 
pletely unnerved  with  the  agony  of  seeing  one  go 
through  that  thing  which  he  most  dreaded  in  his  own 
life.  He  was  so  weakened  by  the  experience  that  he 
went  home,  and  was  not  able  to  leave  his  bed  for  two 
days.  On  the  third  day,  when  he  returned  to  the 
studio,  spent  and  worn,  his  friend  came  in  whistling, 
and  Pop  grasped  him  by  the  hand. 

"Your  wife?"  he  asked.  "Tell  me,  how  is 
she?" 

113 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

"Oh,"  he  replied  nonchalantly,  "she 's  all  right,  I 
left  her  at  the  wash-tubs." 

"But  the  other  day  she  was  ill,  man,  dying — " 

"Oh,  pshaw!"  he  replied,  "that  was  because  I  wanted 
twenty  dollars.  Never  mind,  old  man ;  I  '11  pay  it 
back  some  day." 

But  he  did  n't  pay  it  back,  nor  did  he  ever  come  into 
the  studio  again. 


114 


CHAPTER  VIII 


NEW  YORK  II 

FOR  a  while  during  the  New  York  period  my 
father  and  I  had  a  studio  together  in  the  old 
Booth  Theater  at  Broadway  and  Sixth  Ave- 
nue. Pop  was  growing  richer  and  broader  in  expres- 
sion with  his  maturer  years  and  accumulated  knowl- 
edge. 

When  he  painted  he  painted  at  white  heat.  Pas- 
sionate, dynamic  in  his  force,  I  have  seen  him  some- 
times like  a  madman,  stripped  to  the  waist,  perspira- 
tion rolling  like  a  mill-race  from  his  face,  with  some 
tremendous  idea  struggling  for  expression.  After 
a  picture  was  complete  it  lost  all  value  for  him.  He 
had  no  more  interest  in  it.  What  was  his  masterpiece 
one  day  would  be  "dish-water"  and  "twaddle"  the 
next.  He  would  take  a  canvas  before  the  paint  was 
really  dry,  and,  being  seized  with  another  inspiration, 
would  paint  over  it.  I  have  known  him  to  paint  as 
many  as  half  a  dozen  or  more  pictures  on  one  canvas, 
in  fact,  as  many  as  the  canvas  would  hold.  One  day 
he  called  my  mother  and  me  into  the  studio  and 
showed  us  a  picture  that  he  had  just  completed. 

117 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

"There,  Lizzie,"  he  said,  "I  've  at  last  done  the 
thing  that  I  have  been  trying  for  all  my  life.  I 've 
done  it  this  time.  I  Ve  got  it  at  last.  Ah,  that 's  it, 
and  it 's  so  easy.  See  the  effect?  I  can  do  it  every 
time  now.  It 's  just  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world. 
Can  do  it  just  as  easy  as  eat.  Well,  Georgie,  what  do 
you  think  of  it?" 

"Why,  Pop,"  I  said,  "it 's  beautiful.  You  have  got 
it ;  your  color  and  light  could  n't  be  improved  upon. 
It 's  beautiful.    It 's  a  masterpiece." 

Several  days  after  that  I  came  into  the  studio  and 
found  father  pacing  up  and  down  the  floor  in  a  nerv- 
ous, excitable  sort  of  way,  saying: 

"There,  I  have  got  it  this  time.  Thought  I  had  it 
before.  Light  and  color  were  n't  right ;  but  I 've  got 
it  this  time  all  right.    Just  the  thing  I  want." 

I  went  over  to  the  easel  and  looked  at  the  canvas. 
My  heart  sank.  It  was  ruined !  I  did  n't  say  a  word. 
I  could  n't.  I  wanted  to  cry.  The  beautiful  compo- 
sition of  the  week  before  had  been  entirely  painted 
over.  For  a  while  neither  of  us  spoke;  then  my 
father,  who  was  by  that  time  highly  nervous,  growled 
out: 

"Well?"  I  did  n't  answer.  "Well?"  he  snapped. 
"What  have  you  got  to  say  about  it?" 

"Oh,  nothing,  Pop.  Only  what  did  you  do  it 
for?" 

118 


NEW  YORK  II 

"Now,  there  you  go!"  he  snapped,  and  began  to 
stamp  up  and  down  the  floor.  "What  do  you  know 
about  it,  anyhow?"  He  slammed  the  palette  down 
on  the  table.  "Can't  you  see  I  Ve  improved  it? 
Can't  you  see  what  I 've  done?  Look  how  much  bet- 
ter it  is  now.  Why,  before  it  was  dish-water,  pea- 
soup.  It  had  no  character.  Now  it  means  some- 
thing. What  did  I  send  you  over  to  Paris  to  study 
for?  Come  here  telling  me  what  to  do!  You  don't 
know  anything  about  it.  Get  out  of  here !  Get  out ! 
I  don't  want  you  around." 

Hurt  and  disappointed,  I  left  the  studio  and  walked 
aimlessly  about  the  streets.  That  evening  at  the  din- 
ner-table in  our  boarding-house  down  on  Washington 
Square  father  and  I  were  both  very  glum.  Mother 
looked  from  one  to  the  other,  but  no  word  of  explana- 
tion was  offered.  Pop  looked  like  a  thunder-cloud 
and  did  n't  eat  much.  My  dinner  did  n't  taste  good. 
I  finished  as  soon  as  possible  and,  not  waiting  for 
dessert,  excused  myself  and  went  to  the  Salmagundi 
Club.  Our  studio  was  a  large  one,  and  to  save  room 
rent,  I  slept  on  a  cot  behind  a  screen.  It  was  late 
when  I  got  back  that  night.  We  had  no  gas,  the  only 
light  in  the  room  being  that  of  candles.  The  entrance 
to  the  studio  was  through  a  narrow  hall  which  opened 
on  Sixth  Avenue.  I  fumbled  my  way  down  the  dark 
hall,  opened  the  studio  door,  struck  a  match,  and  began 

119 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

to  grope  my  way  to  the  candle.  As  I  walked  I 
tripped  over  soft  things  that  seemed  to  cover  most  of 
the  floor.  A  frame  cracked,  and  I  jumped.  The 
match  went  out.  I  struck  another,  and  with  difficulty 
reached  the  candle.  Through  its  dim,  flickering  light 
I  could  see  nothing.  I  then  held  it  above  my  head, 
and  saw  rags,  rags  everywhere,  strewn  over  the  floor, 
steeped  in  dark,  ugly  stains  that  looked  like  blood. 
I  did  n't  know  what  terrible  thing  had  occurred ;  my 
first  thought  was  that  burglars  had  been  there,  and  I 
was  wondering  what  I  should  do,  when  I  caught  sight 
of  the  picture  on  the  easel.  I  stared  in  my  astonish- 
ment. It  was  the  beautiful  picture  of  the  week  before 
in  all  the  spontaneous  beauty  that  mother  and  I  had 
admired. 

I  blew  out  the  candles,  and  crept  into  bed  happy. 

The  next  morning  when  I  went  to  breakfast  I 
found  Pop  alone.  At  my  greeting  he  simply  nodded. 
After  breakfast  we  started  for  the  studio.  We  al- 
ways walked  arm  in  arm,  but  this  morning  he  did  n't 
take  my  arm.  I  felt  exactly  what  I  knew  he  felt,  and 
when  I  could  stand  it  no  longer,  I  thrust  my  arm  in 
his,  and  we  walked  silently  on  until  we  had  nearly 
reached  the  studio,  when  he  said  very  simply: 

"Georgie,  I  nearly  ruined  that  picture." 

"I  know  it,  Pop ;  but  it 's  all  right  now." 

"Yes,"  he  said.    "I  could  n't  sleep.    I  got  up  and 

120 


NEW  YORK  II 

got  a  bottle  of  sweet-oil  and  a  bundle  of  rags  from  the 
landlady,  and  went  to  the  studio  and  wiped  the  whole 
damned  thing  off.  George,  we  must  have  gas  put 
in  that  studio." 

But  even  that  did  n't  cure  him  of  that  fatal  habit. 
Nothing  ever  did,  and  it  became  more  and  more  of  a 
passion  with  him.  Sometimes  it  was  a  good  thing, 
but  more  often  a  beautiful  canvas  was  ruined.  How- 
ever, on  one  occasion  it  proved  to  be  a  success.  I  went 
into  his  studio  one  day  when  he  was  on  Fifty-fifth 
Street,  and  as  I  entered  I  saw  him  standing  in  front 
of  his  easel. 

"Hello,  Pop,"  I  said.  "Thought  I  would  just  run 
over  and  see  what  you  were  about.  Got  anything 
new?" 

"Yes,  I  have  a  canvas  here  I 've  been  fussing  over. 
How  does  it  look?" 

"Fine,  Pop,"  I  answered  enthusiastically;  "all 
right,  beautiful.    Fine  tone." 

"Yes,  it  has  things  in  it,  but  it 's  stupid.  Confound 
it !  it 's  too  good ;  it 's  all  tone.  That 's  what 's  the 
matter  with  it.  I 've  got  too  much  detail  in  the  fore- 
ground. That 's  a  thing  we  are  always  running  up 
against  to  tickle  the  buyer — to  make  a  few  dollars. 
Those  weeds  don't  mean  anything.  Let 's  take  them 
out;  they  are  not  the  picture.  This  picture  is  very 
good,  but  it 's  all  tone." 

123 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

"Yes,  Pop,  but  that's  what  I  like  about  it;  it's 
beautiful  in  tone." 

"Perhaps;  but  that 's  what  makes  it  stupid.  Why 
in  thunder  can't  we  put  something  in  that 's  out  of 
tone  ?  You  see,  there 's  no  interest  in  this  picture. 
It 's  well  drawn,  yes,  well  constructed,  well  painted, 
and  perfectly  tonal ;  but  there 's  no  passion  in  it.  A 
picture  without  passion  has  no  meaning,  and  it  would 
be  far  better  had  it  never  been  painted.  Imitation 
is  worthless.  Photography  does  it  much  better  than 
you  or  I  could.  In  a  bar-room  in  New  York  is  a 
painting  of  a  barn-door  with  hinges  on  it  and  a  key- 
hole. It  is  painted  so  well  that  you  would  swear  the 
hinges  were  real,  and  you  could  put  your  finger  in  the 
keyhole;  but  it  is  not  real!  It  is  not  what  it  repre- 
sents. It  is  a  lie.  Clever,  yes,  but  it  gives  you  no 
sensation  of  truth,  because  before  you  look  at  it  you 
are  told  that  it  is  a  lie.  The  only  charm  in  this  pic- 
ture is  in  deceiving  you  into  the  belief  that  it  is  a  real 
barn-door.  Now,  in  art,  true  art,  we  are  not  seeking 
to  deceive.  We  do  not  pretend  that  this  is  a  real 
tree,  a  real  river ;  but  we  use  the  tree  or  the  river  as  a 
means  to  give  you  the  feeling  or  impression  that  under 
a  certain  effect  is  produced  upon  us."  He  had  for- 
gotten the  picture  in  question  for  the  time  being,  and 
had  begun  to  pound  away  at  me  with  his  theories. 

"Now  let  us  assume  that  an  artist,  through  a  divine 

1U 


NEW  YORK  II 

power,  has  been  endowed  with  a  keen  sense  to  see  the 
beautiful  in  nature  that  the  ordinary  layman  who  is 
chained  to  his  desk  cannot  see.  If  we  can  give  that 
man  a  canvas  that  will  take  him  away  from  his  desk 
and  lead  him  into  the  field  and  make  him  feel  what  we 
feel  when  we  hear  the  birds  sing  and  see  the  grain 
wave,  we  have  done  something  good.  In  our  art  this 
is  what  we  should  strive  for.  But  unfortunately  the 
poor  devil  who  is  chained  to  his  desk  generally  has  no 
interest  in  the  canvas  other  than  the  fact  that  it  may 
have  a  greater  money  value  after  our  death.  I  tell 
you,  George,  if  we  could  only  create  a  public  who 
would  appreciate  art  for  art's  sake,  buy  pictures  be- 
cause they  love  them,  and  not  be  led  by  the  nose  by 
the  dealer  who  knows  less  about  art  than  the  most  ig- 
norant farmer  whose  corn-patch  you  are  painting. 
And  why  does  the  picture-dealer  know  nothing  about 
the  art  he  is  selling?  Because  his  judgment  is  warped 
by  the  money  he  may  make.  In  the  dealer's  eyes  the 
greatest  work  of  art  is  the  one  he  can  make  the  most 
money  on.  It  has  been  proved  hundreds  of  times. 
How  about  Millet,  Corot?  And  I  might  mention  a 
lot  of  others  whose  works  were  worthless  until  they 
were  proclaimed  great  by  their  brother  artists.  Take 
myself,  for  instance.  What  has  your  'high-class- 
painting'  dealer  done  for  me?  Nothing  was  good 
without  a  foreign  name  on  it.    Why,  when  one  of  our 

125 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

biggest  dealers  on  Fifth  Avenue,  was  asked  to  pro- 
cure for  a  gentleman  two  American  pictures  for  one 
thousand  dollars  each,  he  said  he  could  not  take  the 
order  because  there  was  not  a  picture  produced  in 
America  worth  one  thousand  dollars.  Why?  Be- 
cause they  can  go  to  Europe,  buy  a  picture  for  twenty- 
five  or  fifty  francs,  with  a  foreign  name  on  it,  and  sell 
it  at  a  large  profit." 

"But  the  dealers  are  handling  your  pictures,  Pop." 

"Yes,  I  know  the  dealers  are  taking  up  my  pictures, 
but  simply  because  the  public  wants  them.  No, 
George,  it 's  all  wrong,  the  whole  system.  There  is 
no  art  in  this  country;  we  have  no  'amateur.'  If  a 
man  is  going  in  for  collecting,  why  does  he  not  make 
enough  of  a  study  of  it  to  be  able  to  buy  what  he  likes  ? 
In  all  my  acquaintances  of  art  buyers  I  do  not  know 
three  who  would  dare  buy  a  picture  before  he  saw  the 
name  of  the  painter  in  the  corner.  Many  a  picture  I 
have  sold  for  fifty  dollars.  I  wonder  if  it  will  be 
worth  more  after  my  death.  If  it  is,  I  am  quite  sure 
it  will  not  be  a  better  work  of  art  just  because  I  am 
dead." 

It  is  interesting  to  note  here  that  many  of  these  pic- 
tures for  which  he  received  so  small  a  sum  are  now 
bringing  in  the  Fifth  Avenue  shops  ten,  fifteen,  and 
twenty  thousand  dollars  each. 

"Oh,  well,"  he  continued,  "forget  it.    Maybe  I  have 

126 


NEW  YORK  II 

said  too  much.  The  dealer  has  his  place,  and  perhaps 
we  poor  devils  would  starve  to  death  without  him ;  but 
when  I  see  a  dealer  shed  tears  over  a  canvas  that  he 
expects  to  make  five  hundred  per  cent,  on,  I — well, 
let 's  get  back  to  the  picture." 

Nothing  warmed  him  up  to  a  pitch  of  inspiration 
quite  so  much  as  to  expound  his  theories.  His  eyes 
were  beginning  to  flash;  he  was  becoming  tense,  and 
as  he  turned,  with  a  swift,  intense  movement  toward 
the  easel,  I  knew  that  that  exquisite  tonal  picture  was 
doomed.  He  seized  his  palette,  squeezed  out  a  great 
quantity  of  ivory  black,  and  pounced  on  the  canvas 
with  the  alertness  of  a  lion.  He  dashed  at  the  tree  in 
the  corner  with  a  glaze  of  black,  which  he  carried 
through  the  foreground. 

"There  you  see,  George,  the  value  of  the  gray  color 
underneath  glazing.  The  transparency  of  it  comes 
out  in  tone.  The  shadows  are  full  of  color.  Not  pig- 
ment ;  all  light  and  air.  Wipe  out  a  little  more  of  it. 
Never  was  anything  as  nice  as  transparent  color." 
He  sprang  back  several  paces,  held  his  hand  over  his 
eyes,  and  looked  at  the  canvas  through  half -closed 
lids. 

"Confound  it,  George!  It's  got  too  much  tone! 
We  don't  know  just  what  it 's  going  to  be,  but  it 's 
coming.  We  don't  care  what  it  is  so  it  expresses 
beauty."    With  a  wild  rush  he  swiftly  painted  out  two 

129 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

of  the  sheep  in  the  foreground.  "Too  much  detail,  I 
tell  you."  His  hair  was  disheveled,  his  eyes  burned 
with  the  fire  of  creative  intensity,  and  the  tail  of  his 
shirt,  responding  to  the  emotional  stress  of  its  owner, 
had  been  jerked  from  its  usual  abiding-place. 
"Now,"  he  continued,  waving  his  palette  in  the  air, 
"we  are  getting  some  kind  of  effect.  Don't  know 
what  the  deuce  it 's  going  to  be,  but  we  are  getting  a 
start.  Now  we  will  suggest  that  tree  in  the  middle 
distance  with  a  little  yellow."  He  stood  off  again, 
held  his  palette  up  to  his  eyes,  and  with  another  dash 
obliterated  the  tops  of  the  trees  with  a  dash  of  blue 
sky.  The  atmosphere  was  electrified.  Pop  was 
quivering  with  emotion,  and  I,  too,  caught  the  tense- 
ness of  the  situation.  He  dabbed  and  smeared,  and 
for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  the  silence  was  broken  only 
by  his  quick  breathing  and  the  jabs  of  his  brush  on  the 
canvas.    He  was  bringing  a  composition  out  of  chaos. 

"That  old  gnarled  tree  might  make  something; 
we  '11  use  that.  Take  advantage  of  anything  you  can 
on  your  canvas,  George.  Confound  it!  now  your 
mother  will  give  me  the  devil  for  using  my  shirt  as  a 
paint-rag.  I  think  that 's  asking  too  much.  Can't 
have  any  peace.  She  won't  let  me  do  what  I  want. 
Now  we  '11  put  a  dab  of  dark  here  and  light  over  there. 
Just  like  music,  George — the  harmony  of  tone.  We 
thump,  thump,  thump  the  keys  to  the  distance,  but 

130 


NEW  YORK  II 

don't  forget  to  put  in  the  harsh  note,  the  accidental. 
It  makes  the  contrast  that  gives  interest  and  beauty 
to  the  whole,  the  gradation  of  light  and  shade  which 
corresponds  to  music.  What  is  art,  anyway?  Noth- 
ing but  temperament,  expression  of  your  feelings. 
Some  days  you  feel  one  way,  some  days  another;  all 
temperament.  There,  you  see  it 's  opening  up. 
Tickle  the  eye,  George,  tickle  the  ear.  Art  is  like 
music.  Music  sounds  good  to  the  ear,  makes  your 
feet  go — want  to  dance.  Art  is  art;  paint,  mud,  mu- 
sic, words,  anything.  Art  takes  hold  of  you — senti- 
ment, life,  expression.  Take  the  poet.  He  does  the 
same  thing  we  are  trying  to  do.  Poe  in  'The  Bells,' 
for  instance, — all  the  same  thing, — it  rolls,  tolls, 
swells,  dwells — all  poetry,  all  the  same  thing.  He 
uses  words ;  we  use  paint ;  the  other  fellow  uses  a  fiddle. 
You  can't  go  any  further  than  that.  Oh,  to  paint  a 
picture,  a  sunset,  without  paint!  To  create  without 
paint !  I  '11  tell  you,  George,  if  a  man  paints  one  pic- 
ture in  a  lifetime  that 's  good,  he  should  be  satisfied. 
When  I 've  painted  one  picture  that 's  a  true  ex- 
pression, I  '11  be  ready  to  go."  Under  the  volley  of 
words  and  strokes  the  composition  was  rapidly  taking 
form. 

"Never  paint  with  the  idea  of  selling.  Lose  every- 
thing first,  George.  You  can  put  in  a  little  dog, 
maybe,  and  it  will  buy  you  an  overcoat.    Be  honest ; 

131 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

somebody 's  going  to  find  it  out.  You  '11  get  the 
credit  for  it  in  the  long  run.  Gad !  the  struggles  I  Ve 
had  in  my  life  to  be  true!  Dealers  come  in  and 
offer  me  money  to  put  in  this  or  that,  and  I  have  to 
do  it  because  I  have  to  live.  There,  see  it  grow — only 
a  tone;  but  it  makes  you  feel  good."  With  a  few 
deft  touches  he  had  suggested  several  sheep  in  the 
foreground.  The  whole  picture  was  dark  and  tonal. 
But  the  dull-red  house  of  the  original  composition  still 
stood  out  incongruously  in  the  new.  He  stepped 
back  several  paces  and  looked  at  it;  then  with  a  dash 
he  slapped  in  a  mass  of  yellow  ocher  over  the  house, 
and  with  two  or  three  sweeps  of  the  brush  had  trans- 
formed the  old  red  structure  into  a  vibrant  twilight 
sky.  All  the  rest  was  dark  and  in  perfect  tone. 
With  that  supreme  stroke  he  struck  the  accidental, 
and  pushed  the  harmony  almost  to  discord,  and  the 
finished  canvas  stood  before  us  a  masterpiece. 

While  I  am  speaking  of  my  father's  ideals  and 
theories,  specially  when  they  touch  on  what  he  called 
the  trickery  in  art,  I  am  constrained  to  tell  the  story 
of  a  lady  whose  favorite  pastime  in  New  York  was 
hunting  lions.  This  lady  was  very  rich,  and  had  con- 
stituted herself  one  of  my  father's  patrons  just  at  the 
time  when  he  most  needed  patrons. 

One  day  when  she  was  in  the  studio  she  became 
very  enthusiastic  over  a  canvas  he  was  painting.  She 

133 


NEW  YORK  II 

watched  him  for  some  time,  then  burst  out  that  she 
wanted  to  make  a  suggestion,  but  was  too  frightened. 

"Go  right  on,  Madam,"  said  my  father.  "What  is 
it  you  would  like  to  suggest?" 

Oh,  I  am  afraid  to  say  it,  but — but — don't  you 
think — oh,  Mr.  Inness,  I 'm  so  afraid,  but  don't  you 
think  that  if  you  had  a  man  coming  down  the  lane  it 
would  give  interest?" 

Father  looked  up. 

"Why,  I  believe  it  would.  You  are  right.  That 's 
just  what  the  picture  wants.  It  needs  a  spot  of  light 
there.  I 'm  glad  you  mentioned  it.  I  felt  there  was 
something  lacking.  There,  that 's  it."  The  dear 
lady  was  all  in  a  flutter  as  she  saw  him  with  consum- 
mate skill  put  the  figure  in.  The  artist,  her  latest 
lion,  had  taken  her  suggestion  and  had  acted  upon  it. 

"Oh,  mercy!"  she  continued,  "dare  I  do  it  again? 
Now,  oh,  Mr.  Inness,  don't  you  think  you  might — oh, 
dear,  can't  you  put  a  little  dog  following  the  man?" 

Exasperated  beyond  control,  he  burst  out : 

"Madam,  you  are  a  fool!" 

The  lady  never  visited  my  father's  studio  again. 
The  lion  had  snapped  at  her.  She  never  bought  an- 
other Inness  and,  I  am  told,  sold  all  that  she  had. 

The  tremendous  desire  to  paint  over  a  canvas  did 
not  limit  itself  to  his  own  pictures.  He  was  no  re- 
specter of  persons  or  pictures,  and  it  made  no  differ- 

135 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

ence  who  painted  the  original,  who  was  the  owner,  or 
what  was  sacrificed  in  the  doing.  Many  of  his  con- 
temporaries have  fallen  victims  to  this  insatiate  weak- 
ness. I  believe  he  would  far  rather  have  painted  on  a 
picture  than  a  clean  canvas.  The  composition,  no 
matter  how  good,  always  suggested  something  that  he 
could  improve  upon.  It  became  so  bad  that  Mrs.  A. 
H.  Wyant,  wife  of  the  artist,  finally  had  to  forbid 
him  her  husband's  studio. 

I  remember  on  one  occasion  the  artist  J.  G.  Brown 
told  me  of  my  father  coming  into  his  studio  in  the 
Tenth  Street  Building,  which  is  still  one  of  New 
York's  prominent  studios,  and  after  looking  at  a  nice 
little  bootblack  who  was  making  his  black  and  tan  dog 
beg  for  a  piece  of  cake  said: 

"That 's  a  good  story,  Brown,  but  your  boy 's  too 
clean,  and  your  dog 's  too  black  and  tan.  You 've  got 
too  much  in  the  picture;  in  fact,  it 's  all  cracker-box 
and  dog  and  boy.  What  you  want  is  breadth.  Take 
out  some  of  those  details  and  tell  the  story  more  sim- 
ply.   Here,  give  me  your  brush ;  I  '11  show  you." 

"And,"  said  Brown,  "I  wish  you  could  have  seen 
the  way  he  went  at  that  ten-by-fourteen  canvas. 
With  one  sweep  of  the  brush  he  had  changed  my  beau- 
tiful brick  wall  into  a  twilight  sky,  had  made  a  pool  of 
water  out  of  the  cracker-box,  wiped  all  the  buttons  off 
the  boy's  clothes,  and  changed  boy  and  dog  into  a 

136 


NEW  YORK  II 

couple  of  dull-colored  tramps.  But  I  have  that  can- 
vas yet,  and  nothing  would  induce  me  to  part  with  it." 

Such  things  happened  often  to  me.  About  forty 
years  ago  I  painted  a  picture  of  a  team  of  oxen — a 
picture  of  which  my  father  was  as  proud  as  I.  In 
fact,  he  thought  so  much  of  it  that  he  bought  a  hand- 
some gold  frame,  and  had  it  exhibited  in  the  art  rooms 
of  Williams  &  Everett  in  Boston.  Then  the  picture 
disappeared,  and  I  wondered  many  times  what  had 
happened  to  it.  I  was  sure  that  I  had  never  sold  it, 
and  I  had  almost  deluded  myself  into  the  belief  and 
hope  that  some  art  lover  had  yielded  to  a  great  temp- 
tation and  stolen  it.  But  "what  a  check  to  proud  am- 
bition!" One  day  recently,  while  visiting  my  sister, 
Mrs.  Hartley,  I  was  looking  at  a  very  wonderful  can- 
vas of  my  father's  that  is  hanging  in  her  house,  a  pow- 
erful storm  effect,  and  catching  it  in  a  cross  light,  I 
saw  under  the  clouds  and  landscape  the  outline  of  my 
team  of  oxen.  The  mystery  was  solved.  My  oxen 
had  come  to  light,  or,  rather,  I  should  say,  had  been 
revealed  in  darkness.  All  these  years  they  had  been 
plodding  through  this  glorious  storm.  Dear  old  Pop, 
in  dire  need  of  a  canvas,  had  painted  over  my  picture 
and  immortalized  it  thus. 

Again,  when  I  had  a  studio  at  896  Broadway,  Pop 
came  in,  and  looking  at  a  twenty-by-thirty  canvas, 
which  I  called  "The  Lost  Sheep,"  praised  it  exces- 

137 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

sively.  This  story  seems  almost  incredible,  but  is 
true,  nevertheless.  The  subject  was  a  large  sheep 
that  took  up  the  greater  part  of  the  canvas, — I  should 
say  about  sixteen  inches, — and  by  her  side  trudged  a 
poor  little  lamb.  They  were  lost  in  a  snow-storm. 
The  canvas  was  dry,  having  been  set  aside  as  finished. 
I  was  going  to  try  to  trade  it  off  for  a  suit  of  clothes  or 
something  when  Pop  saw  it. 

"  'The  Lost  Sheep,' "  he  said,  "why  when  did  you 
do  that?  It's  fine.  Tells  the  story  well,  is  well 
painted,  and  thoroughly  carried  out.  You  are  on 
the  right  track;  keep  right  on  in  that  way.  It  is 
the  first  really  complete  picture  you  have  painted, 
and  it  does  not  suggest  me.  You  will  find  after  this 
that  your  work  will  go  much  easier.  Your  trouble 
has  been  that  you  work  too  long  on  a  picture;  you 
must  let  it  alone  when  you  have  finished  it  and  not 
fuss  over  it.  A  very  fine  canvas,  George," — and  in 
a  very  low  voice,  each  word  pronounced  slowly  and 
distinctly, — "possibly  a  little  too  much  detail  in  the 
foreground."  He  shaded  his  eyes  with  his  hand,  just 
as  I  had  remembered  him  many  years  before  while 
painting  the  wash-tub,  then  he  began  to  get  excited, 
and  with  a  sweep  of  his  arm  said:  "Don't  you  see 
your  foreground  is  all  full  of  weeds?  They've  got 
nothing  to  do  with  the  story.  Why  the  devil  can't 
you  get  more  breadth  in  your  pictures?" 

138 


NEW  YORK  II 

"But,  Pop—" 

"Nonsense,  I  tell  you  I  It 's  got  no  breadth ;  it 's 
full  of  things.  Wipe  them  out  if  you  are  going  to 
paint  snow."  Jumping  up  from  his  seat,  he  shouted: 
"Why  in  thunder  don't  you  make  it  snow?  Give  it 
breadth."  He  stalked  up  and  down  the  studio,  wav- 
ing his  arms  around  his  head.  "What  is  it?  If  you 
want  to  make  a  picture  of  it,  take  out  that  sheep. 
It 's  a  snow  scene  you  are  painting ;  then  give  a  feel- 
ing of  snow.    Take  out  that  sheep ;  it  has  no  value." 

"But,  Pop—"  I  protested. 

"I  tell  you" — shaking  his  fist  and  rushing  up  to 
the  canvas — "it 's  as  much  like  a  sheep  as  a  stone 
wall.  Here,  give  me  your  brushes ;  I  '11  show  you." 
I  handed  over  palette  and  brushes.  He  squeezed  out 
a  quantity  of  white  paint,  and  went  at  it  as  if  he  were 
plastering  a  wall.  He  didn't  paint  out  the  sheep; 
he  simply  enveloped  it.  His  hair  was  tumbled,  his 
face  flushed,  and  he  worked  like  something  possessed. 
When  he  was  through,  he  flung  down  the  palette, 
sank  into  a  chair,  and  said,  "There!  Now  you've 
got  some  breadth  to  your  picture  I" 

We  sat  and  looked  at  each  other  for  a  few  moments 
in  silence. 

Finally  Pop  spoke: 

"Well,  why  don't  you  say  something?  Don't  sit 
there  like  a  bump  on  a  log.    Don't  you  like  it?" 

139 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

"No,"  I  said;  "my  picture  is  ruined." 
"Then,"  he  exclaimed  impatiently,  "why  the  devil 
did  you  do  it,  George?    Wipe  it  off!" 
This  I  did. 

"There  now,"  he  said,  "you've  got  your  picture 
back.  Never  do  such  a  thing  again,  George.  I  do 
it,  too,  and  it 's  the  curse  of  my  life.  You  've  got  a 
good  picture  there,  and  for  Heaven's  sake  leave  it 
alone  now!" 

"The  Lost  Sheep"  was  found,  and  we  walked  arm 
in  ami  out  of  the  studio  to  dinner. 

My  father  had  the  idea  firmly  established  in  his 
mind  that  a  work  of  art  from  his  brush  always  re- 
mained his  property,  and  that  he  had  the  right  to 
paint  it  over  or  change  it  at  will,  no  matter  where  he 
found  it  or  who  had  bought  it,  or  what  money  he  may 
have  received  for  it.  Wherever  he  found  his  pictures 
after  they  had  left  his  studio  he  criticized,  and  would 
in  most  violent  language  declare  the  thing  was  "rot," 
that  the  sky  was  false  or  the  distance  out  of  key,  and 
in  a  very  matter  of  fact  way  would  say  "Just  send  it 
around  to  the  studio  to-morrow  and  I  '11  put  it  into 
shape." 

"But  I  like  it  as  it  is,"  the  purchaser  would  reply. 
"It  makes  no  difference  what  you  like;  I  say  the 
thing  is  false.    Here,  let  me  take  it  with  me,  and  I 

140 


NEW  YORK  II 

will  make  a  picture  of  it.  I  see  a  fine  idea  in  it,  and  I 
will  have  it  done  to-morrow." 

In  response  to  the  owner's  entirely  legitimate  ob- 
jections he  would  continue: 

"Nonsense!  What  right  have  you  to  like  it  when 
I  find  it  false  and  discordant?  Don't  you  think  I 
know  what  I  am  talking  about?  And  I  want  you  to 
understand,  sir,  that  I  claim  the  right  to  go  into  any 
house  and  change  a  work  of  mine  when  I  am  not  sat- 
isfied with  it,  and  see  where  I  can  improve  it.  Do 
you  think,  because  you  have  paid  money  for  a  picture 
of  mine,  that  it  belongs  to  you?  If  you  had  any 
knowledge  of  art,  you  would  see  that  it  is  false  and 
be  glad  to  have  me  work  upon  it  and  improve  it." 

He  was  perfectly  sincere  in  such  convictions  and 
honestly  tried  to  carry  them  out. 

A  gentleman  once  bought  from  my  father  a  large 
and  important  canvas.  He  was  very  proud  of  pos- 
sessing it,  and  asked  Inness  to  send  it  to  the  exhibition 
of  the  Academy  of  Design,  which  was  to  be  held  the 
next  week,  explaining  that  it  would  give  him  much 
pleasure  to  show  his  friends  the  picture  he  had  bought, 
and  to  have  it  hung  in  the  academy  rooms.  My 
father  agreed  readily,  as  he  believed  this  particular 
picture  to  be  the  finest  thing  he  had  ever  done.  The 
last  was  always  the  best,  the  old  story  of  the  new  baby. 

141 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

So  he  assured  his  patron  that  the  canvas  would  be 
sent. 

The  next  day  Inness  looked  at  the  canvas. 

"This  has  been  sold,"  he  thought;  "it  is  finished  and 
going  to  be  taken  away.  I  wonder  if  I  can  improve 
it.  The  foreground  wants  some  lifting  up;  it  lacks 
interest.  These  rocks  are  too  small,  and  the  sea  that 
is  beating  against  them  looks  hard,  it  has  no  motion." 

On  the  impulse  of  the  moment  he  seized  his  palette 
and  dashed  at  the  canvas.  The  quiet  waves  were 
turned  into  a  raging  sea  of  foam,  the  sky  was  dark- 
ened to  lower  the  tone,  and  over  the  whole  picture  an 
angry  thunder-storm  was  cast.  He  stood  off  from 
the  easel  and  looked  at  it. 

"Confound  the  thing!  I 've  ruined  it.  The  sea  is 
mud,  and  the  sky  has  turned  to  lead.  I  cannot  rub 
it  off  because  the  paint  underneath  is  wet.  It 's  get- 
ting dark,  and  I  must  catch  the  train.  Curse  the 
luck !  I  '11  never  do  such  a  thing  again.  When  I 
get  a  picture  finished,  and  any  damn  fool  wants  to 
buy  it,  I  will  leave  it  alone  whether  I  like  it  or  not." 

When  Pop  reached  home  that  evening  it  was  quite 
evident  to  mother  that  something  had  gone  wrong 
with  his  work.  She  always  knew,  and  although  he 
was  very  glum  and  wanted  to  be  let  alone,  she,  with 
an  art  of  her  own,  drew  the  whole  story  out  bit  by  bit, 
and  when  he  had  finished  she  sent  him  to  bed  con- 

142 


NEW  YORK  II 

vinced  by  her  wise  arguments  that  he  had  improved 
the  picture,  and  with  a  few  deft  strokes  could  bring 
it  back  to  perfection  in  the  morning. 

The  next  day,  upon  reaching  the  studio,  he  was 
still  of  the  opinion  that  it  had  been  for  the  best  that 
he  had  blotted  out  "that  stupid  sea  picture,"  giving 
him  a  real  opportunity  to  make  a  beautiful  thing. 
The  big  rock  he  changed  into  an  apple-tree.  With 
the  aid  of  a  palette-knife  he  scraped  off  the  raging  sea, 
and  in  its  place  painted  in  a  rich  grass  meadow.  In 
the  middle  distance  he  placed  a  clump  of  elm-trees  in 
shadow.  He  was  happy  once  again,  and  as  he  sang 
and  whistled  the  picture  grew.  Here  was  a  new 
problem  to  solve,  a  new  idea  to  bring  into  being,  to 
create. 

The  postman  dropped  a  letter  in  the  slot,  but  Ill- 
ness was  in  no  mood  for  letters.  He  scarcely  noticed 
it.  When  under  the  fire  of  inspiration  he  heard  noth- 
ing, saw  nothing,  cared  for  nothing  but  the  thing 
which  he  was  creating.  The  picture  was  growing  at 
his  touch.  A  big  bright  cloud  rolled  up  behind  the 
elms,  a  heavy  pall  hung  down  from  the  zenith  of  the 
sky,  and  here  and  there  little  clouds  floated  in  a  soft, 
gray  sky,  and  down  upon  the  horizon  settled  a  veil  of 
deeper  blue,  throwing  in  relief  a  sunlit  barn.  Far 
beyond  a  puff  of  smoke  rose  from  a  rushing  train. 
The  darkened  pall  of  cloud  cast  a  shadow  on  the 

145 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

ground  in  front,  leaving  the  rest  bathed  in  amber  light. 

Exhausted,  but  happy,  Pop  filled  his  pipe,  picked 
up  the  letter  from  the  floor,  and  dropping  into  a  chair 
opened  the  letter,  which  inclosed  a  check  for  the  pic- 
ture on  the  easel  before  him,  the  one  he  had  just  com- 
pleted. 

"The  gentleman  will  be  pleased,"  he  said  aloud. 
"The  subject  is  nothing.  It  is  the  art  he  wants,  and 
this  is  the  greatest  thing  I  have  ever  done." 

The  following  week  the  academy  exhibition  opened, 
and  according  to  my  father's  promise  the  picture  was 
hung.  The  gentleman  who  had  purchased  it  was 
there  on  the  first  day,  eager  to  show  the  great  master- 
piece to  his  friends.  He  searched  the  galleries 
through,  and  great  was  his  chagrin  at  not  finding  it; 
but  when  he  caught  sight  of  the  new  Inness  he  ex- 
claimed to  his  friends  that  this  one  was  finer  than  the 
one  he  had  bought,  and  expressed  his  regret  at  not 
having  seen  it  first.  A  crowd  had  gathered  around 
the  canvas,  artists  and  laymen,  and  were  looking  with 
unconcealed  admiration  at  the  work  of  the  master 
when  my  father  and  I  entered.  Catching  sight  of 
Inness,  his  patron  rushed  up  to  him  and  exclaimed : 

"Mr.  Inness,  how  could  you  disappoint  me  so? 
You  promised  to  send  my  picture  here,  and  you  have 
sent  this  one." 

146 


NEW  YORK  II 

"Why,  this  is  your  picture,"  said  Pop,  "a  little 
changed,  perhaps;  but  then,  you  see,  I  had  not  fin- 
ished it." 


147 


CHAPTER  IX 


LETTERS 

GEORGE  INNESS  is  known  primarily  as 
a  landscape-painter,  and  as  such  he  won 
his  reputation ;  but  it  is  interesting  to  note 
that  even  after  he  had  established  himself  as  a  painter 
of  landscapes  he  became  very  enthusiastic  about  fig- 
ure-painting, and  decided  to  go  into  that  almost  to 
the  exclusion  of  the  broader  subject.  These  letters 
to  my  mother  tell  the  story  better  than  I  can. 

Sunday,  Milton,  July,  1881 

My  darling  wife: 

I  was  glad  to  get  your  two  letters,  as  I  had  wondered  why 
I  had  not  heard  from  jou  more  frequently.  I  begin  to  feci 
lonely  without  you,  but  there  is  no  help  for  it.  What  I  de- 
termine upon  I  must  hereafter  carry  out  resolutely  or  I  shall 
accomplish  nothing.  I  will  no  longer  have  any  unfinished 
work  in  my  wake  to  bother  me. 

My  picture  still  needs  about  three  days,  I  think,  but  if  I 
can  improve  it  after  that  I  shall  not  hesitate  to  use  the  time. 
I  think  you  will  be  somewhat  surprised  when  you  see  it.  The 
old  man  seems  to  strike  people  as  wonderful.  The  boy's 
face  also  is  considered  very  fine,  although  he  is  not  yet  fin- 
ished, particularly  the  figure  and  hands,  which  have  a  great 
deal  to  do  with  the  faces.    The  old  man's  eyes,  just  peering 

148 


LETTERS 


out  from  under  the  rim  of  his  hat  against  a  glowing  twi- 
light sky,  have  a  most  weird  and  striking  effect.  The  hands 
are  very  thorough  and  strong  in  character,  and  the  whole 
picture  is  exceedingly  mellow  and  rich  with  the  light  of  the 
afterglow. 

You  have  no  idea  how  stunningly  I  am  painting  every  part 
of  it.  Every  part  speaks  of  reality.  I  begin  to  feel  now 
that  I  have  got  at  what  will  always  be  in  demand  at  good 
prices,  and  I  feel  my  interest  in  this  sort  of  thing  gradually 
taking  the  place  of  landscape.  They  are  certainly  more 
satisfactory,  although  at  present  I  have  to  apply  myself 
very  closely. 

My  next  I  shall  no  doubt  do  with  much  greater  ease  and 
certainty.  We  have  had  one  or  two  rather  warm  days  this 
week,  but  it  is  cool  enough  now;  in  fact,  on  the  piazza  it  is 
almost  cold.  I  hope,  darling,  that  you  are  enjoying  your- 
self and  having  a  good  time.  I  thought  at  one  time  that  I 
might  find  some  subjects  at  Alexandria  Bay,  but  if  I  did,  it 
would  be  difficult  to  get  models  and  opportunities  which  I  get 
here.  Here  I  have  everything  just  as  I  want  and  need  at 
present,  just  such  subjects  as  suit  me,  and  every  conven- 
ience of  time. 

The  old  man  and  his  children,  together  with  some  little 
girls  who  are  running  about,  make  capital  models,  and  I 
must  not  neglect  this  opportunity  if  I  intend  to  paint  these 
subjects.  If  I  do  not  do  it  now  I  shall  never  do  it,  and  if  I 
can  get  these  pictures  in  the  style  of  the  one  I  am  painting 
finished  this  summer,  I  shall  feel  pretty  sure  of  being  able  to 
get  myself  into  smooth  waters. 

All  the  friends  here  send  their  kind  regards  and  good 
wishes,  and  some  of  them  will  await  your  return  with  impa- 
tience as  time  lessens  the  distance  between  us. 

I  am  never  in  a  very  good  condition  to  write,  as  my  work 

149 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 


is  pretty  constant  and  uses  up  my  powers  pretty  well,  al- 
though otherwise  I  thrive  under  the  work.  To-day  I  got 
interested  in  a  book,  and  have  been  reading  all  day,  which 
rather  upsets  me  for  writing  very  brilliant  letters.  Give  my 
love  to  all, 

Your  affectionate  George. 
Milton,  July  6,  1881 

My  darling  wife: 

I  received  your  very  dear  letter  this  evening,  and  with  it 
the  others  from  Mr.  Smith,  which  did  not,  of  course,  make 
me  feel  very  brilliant ;  so  I  went  to  work  with  some  charcoal 
and  made  some  sketches  until  I  got  myself  in  a  more  com- 
fortable condition.  I  did  not  feel  very  much  disturbed,  how- 
ever, as  I  always  thought  the  sending  pictures  to  London  was 
nonsense.  I  thought  that  the  small  one  might  do  something 
at  a  moderate  price,  but  the  works  of  an  unknown  artist  are 
not  worth  anything  until  some  known  dealer  works  them 
up.  Still,  as  they  are  there,  perhaps  Mr.  Smith  may  find  a 
dealer  with  whom  he  may  make  a  bargain ;  but  if  he  does,  it 
will  be  for  very  little. 

It  is  going  to  be  a  scorcher  to-day.  It  is  now  half-past 
six,  and  the  thermometer  is  at  seventy-eight ;  so  that  we  may 
expect  to  be  among  the  big  figures  about  noon.  I  am  in 
excellent  spirits,  however,  and  only  fear  that  my  old  man 
may  find  it  too  hot  to  stand  for  me.  I  got  my  canvas 
stretched  and  the  figures  drawn  in  charcoal  from  the  sketch 
yesterday  afternoon,  but  the  old  man  did  not  feel  very  well, 
so  I  sketched  in  the  background  with  some  minor  matters, 
and  left  the  canvas,  etc.,  at  his  house  for  this  morning,  when 
he  promised  to  stand. 

As  I  write  I  feel  a  breeze  spring  up  from  southwest,  so 
that  it  may  turn  out  cooler.  I  am  much  stronger  in  many 
ways  than  you  think.    It  is  not  so  much  the  body  as  it  is 

150 


LETTERS 


the  discouraging  anxieties  which  I  have  had  to  endure,  and 
which  come  over  me  at  every  landscape  that  I  complete.  It 
seems  to  say,  what  use  am  I?  It  is  therefore  desirable  that 
I  get  myself  firmly  fixed  in  this  painting  of  figure  and  over- 
come the  tendency  to  an  old  sympathy. 

If  I  had  gone  with  you  to  Alexandria  Bay  the  fresh  scen- 
ery there  would  have  at  once  put  me  off  the  track,  and  I  con- 
sider it  a  good  thing  that  this  figure  picture  had  got  full 
possession  of  my  mind.  I  begin  to  feel  the  increasing  inter- 
est in  them,  and  I  find  that  the  landscape  which  I  introduce 
has  a  charm  greater  than  when  painted  alone.  There  is  a 
calf  fastened  to  the  side  of  the  lane  of  which  I  can  make 
great  use  in  something;  in  fact,  I  begin  to  see  how  the  inter- 
est of  figure  and  landscape  are  to  be  combined  better  and 
better  every  day,  and  how  the  charm  of  the  latter  can  be 
vastly  increased  thereby. 

Milton,  Sunday,  July,  1881 

My  darling  wife: 

It  would  be  very  pleasant  for  me  to  be  with  you  to-day, 
but  distance  and  expense  stand  between  us  as  too  great  for  a 
short  visit;  for  I  could  not  leave  what  I  am  doing  perma- 
nently, and  I  am  sure  you  would  not  desire  it  at  the  expense 
of  neglecting  my  work. 

The  weather  is  at  times  pretty  warm,  but  on  the  whole  I 
get  on  very  well,  working  easily  and  successfully.  I  have 
now  had  four  days  upon  my  figure  picture,  and  it  is  very  sat- 
isfactory. I  am  convinced  now  that  I  can  paint  these 
things  without  any  lack  of  character  or  accuracy.  Mr. 
Gurney  says  he  would  choose  it  sooner  as  it  is  than  any  of 
my  landscapes,  and  as  long  as  I  can  get  a  model,  I  can  get 
on  as  easily  with  one  as  with  another.  You  may  feel  assured 
that  two  or  three  such  pictures  as  this  is  getting  to  be  will 

151 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

get  us  out  of  trouble.  If  I  do  not  sell  a  landscape,  I  feel 
that  I  am  getting  stunning  characters,  and  I  see  several 
things  to  do  which  will  be  as  good.  I  think  it  probable  that 
I  shall  get  through  this  week,  but  am  not  certain ;  in  any  case 
I  do  not  think  it  advisable  to  leave  a  field  where  I  am  doing 
such  successful  work  and  enjoying  good  health  at  the  same 
time.  If  I  had  money,  I  might  feel  differently;  but  if  I  do 
not  hear  something  favorable  from  the  pictures  I  sent  to 
New  York,  I  must  go  there  and  try  to  stir  up  something.  It 
will  never  do  for  me  to  wait  until  I  am  almost  out  of  money. 
It  seems  to  me  that  until  affairs  are  in  better  shape  I  must 
remain  nearer  my  base  of  supplies. 

I  am  glad  to  know,  my  dear,  that  you  are  enjoying  your- 
self. Be  happy  and  feel  certain  that  our  short  separation 
will  end  in  a  great  satisfaction  to  us  both  in  the  knowledge 
that  my  stay  here  has  been  pecuniary  profit.  I  have  ob- 
tained the  box  for  Nell.  It  is  from  Mr.  Duly,  a  very  hand- 
some mat  of  fox-skins,  which  I  presume  is  for  looks  rather 
than  use. 

It  was  my  intention  to  write  you  a  good  long  letter  to-day, 
but  I  find  myself  very  dull,  I  presume  from  having  got  inter- 
ested in  one  of  those  subjects  which  absorb  the  mind  to  a 
point  of  exhaustion;  so  you  must  not  think  I  neglect  you 
for  my  greatest  happiness  is  to  be  where  you  are.  All  the 
friends  here  inquire  of  me  as  to  how  you  are  enjoying  your- 
self, and  send  much  love.  Give  my  love  to  Nell  and  Scott, 
and  remember  me  to  all. 

Your  affectionate  husband, 

George  Inness. 

Milton,  July  13,  1881 

My  dear  wife: 

I  do  not  think  it  wise  for  me  to  leave  here  at  present.  My 
work  is  going  on  well,  and  I  am  well.    So  you  must  not  ex- 

152 


Owned  by  Mr.  James  W.  Ellsworth 

MIDSUMMER 


LETTERS 


peet  me  for  some  time,  and  it  may  be  that  I  shall  stay  here 
until  you  come  back.  I  have  already  written  you  why  I 
consider  it  necessary  for  me  to  stay.  My  picture  is  a  great 
success  and  progresses  rapidly.    A  few  more  days  will  finish 

it.    C          was  here  to-day  on  his  way  to  Palenville.  He 

seems  to  think  it  will  create  a  sensation  and  will  command 
ready  sale.  It  is  certainly  a  very  striking  picture,  and  as 
soon  as  it  is  finished  I  shall  commence  another,  which  I  have 
composed  from  nature. 

I  think  these  things  will  bring  money  readily,  and  I  am 
determined  to  get  out  of  debt  this  winter,  and  the  sale  of 
landscapes  is  too  uncertain. 

I  trust,  my  dear,  that  you  will  enjoy  yourself  just  the 
same.  The  weather  is  rather  warm,  but  nothing  distressing, 
I  do  not  mind  it.  Give  my  love  to  all.  Does  baby  remember 
grandpa  ? 

Your  affectionate 

George. 

Milton,  July  19,  1881 

My  dear  wife: 

I  have  just  received  yours  of  the  17th  inst. 

I  still  have  our  room,  so  that  if  you  conclude  to  come  on 
the  first  of  August  we  can  be  accommodated  as  before.  I 
feel  very  lonely  sometimes  without  you,  although  I  keep  my- 
self so  thoroughly  employed  that  I  drive  away  anything  like 
the  blues.  I  hope  that  you  will  come,  but  I  do  not  feel  that 
I  shall  press  you  against  what  you  think  you  should  do.  All 
the  friends  here  are  anxious  that  you  should  return  soon.  If 
Nell  can  get  on  without  you,  I  do  not  see  why  you  should 
stay. 

I  have  commenced  the  new  picture.  It  is  a  part  of  the 
lane  near  the  old  man's  house,  including  him  and  several  fig- 
ures of  children,  a  dog  and  so  forth.    I  just  write  this  in 

155 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 


haste  as  a  requested  answer  to  your  last.  So  you  must 
excuse  its  shortness.    I  shall  write  again  in  a  day  or  two. 

Yours  affectionately, 

George. 
July  22,  1881 

My  dear  wife: 

I  have  been  so  busy  that  I  have  not  been  able  to  write  to 
you  since  Tuesday  last,  as  I  intended  to.  I  have  just  been 
looking  over  my  picture  of  the  old  man,  which  I  have  laid 
aside  for  a  day  or  two.  There  is  certainly  something  won- 
derful in  this  picture,  as  several  persons  have  said.  It  is 
exceedingly  elaborate,  but  sufficiently  broad.  I  still  have 
about  a  day's  work  upon  it,  which  I  shall  do  when  I  feel 
perfectly  fresh.  The  picture  is  a  warm,  mellow  russet-gray, 
and  gives  the  feeling  of  the  time  very  strangely,  and  whoever 
looks  at  it  once  will  not  get  away  from  it  very  easily.  My 
second  picture  progresses  very  rapidly,  and  is  to  be  fresh 
and  green,  though  not  violent.  I  shall  soon  paint  the  figure 
with  great  power.  I  commenced  another  picture  to-day, 
which  I  had  made  a  small  sketch  of  and  have  had  in  my  mind 
for  some  time.  The  size  is  thirty-eight  by  twenty-four. 
Subject,  "An  Evening  at  the  Pond."  I  have  taken  just  a 
small  bit  by  the  water,  with  rushes  very  near  and  a  dark  wood 
on  opposite  bank  against  the  reflection  of  this  wood.  I  have 
a  figure  of  a  girl  in  light  grays  and  white  in  shadow,  and  a 
boy,  feet  in  water,  throwing  a  stone  at  some  large  birds 
which  are  rising  from  the  rushes.  A  brilliant  evening  sky  at 
the  right,  seen  over  some  lower  forms  of  wood,  is  reflected 
in  the  foreground,  and  the  back  of  a  black  cow  is  seen  going 
out  of  the  picture.  This  tells  the  story  of  the  girl  and  boy 
without  introducing  more  cattle.  The  girl  is  about  twelve 
inches  high.    The  effect  is  grand,  and  so  is  the  color;  in 

156 


LETTERS 


fact,  the  picture  seems  to  me  to  express  grandeur  better  than 
anything  I  have  done.  All  these  pictures  are  painted  with 
very  gray  colors,  which  I  find  give  me  the  truest  tone  of  na- 
ture, so  that,  although  they  are  very  rich,  they  are  full  of 
air. 

The  picture  of  the  lane  is  very  real-looking.  How  is  the 
little  tot?  I  want  to  see  her  very  much,  as  I  do  all  of  you, 
but  I  must  carry  out  my  program.  I  wonder  sometimes  at 
what  I  go  through,  but  though  I  sometimes  feel  pretty  well 
used  up,  I  soon  recuperate,  and  find  it  best  not  to  give  way  to 
the  notion  of  fatigue,  as  work  agrees  with  me,  and  a  little 
change  of  subject  rests  me  better  than  to  do  nothing. 

Good-by,  darling, 

Your  affectionate  husband, 

George. 

Milton,  July  22,  1881 

My  dear  wife : 

I  hardly  know  what  to  write  to  you  to-night  as  I  feel 
rather  dull  and  in  no  condition  to  write.  It  is  not  that  I  am 
not  well  exactly,  but  a  sort  of  depression  which  will  not  re- 
lieve itself  in  words.  I  presume  it  is  the  natural  effect  of 
hard  work,  and  I  presume  the  rest  I  have  had  to-day  will 
bring  me  all  right  by  morning.  I  am  glad  to  hear  that  you 
have  determined  to  return  on  the  first  of  August.  You  may 
depend  that  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  see  you  again.  I  have 
found  some  beautiful  walks,  which  we  can  take  together  as 
we  did  in  the  old  times. 

The  pictures  go  on  all  right.  This  afternoon  it  has 
been  rather  warm,  but  nothing  to  speak  of.  On  the  whole, 
it  has  been  very  comfortable,  and  I  do  not  think  we  shall  have 

157 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 


much  warm  weather  this  summer.  Excuse  this  short  letter, 
and  give  my  love  to  all. 

Your  affectionate  husband, 

George. 

Dear  wife : 

Milton  is  where  you  left  it,  and  all  things  are  about  the 
same.  Work  goes  on  as  usual,  and  all  is  serene.  My  pic- 
ture interests  me  more  and  more  as  it  goes  on,  particularly 
now  that  it  begins  to  have  force  and  gets  nearer  and  nearer 
to  the  tone  of  nature.  I  shall  continue  working  on  it  as 
long  as  I  can  improve  it,  so  that  precisely  when  it  will  be 
finished  I  cannot  say;  however  as  long  as  I  obtain  what  I 
want  the  time  is  not  to  be  considered.  I  presume  you  are 
enjoying  yourself ;  that  is,  if  you  can  keep  cool.  It  is  pretty 
warm  here  to-day ;  about  ninety,  I  think. 

We  expect  you  to  bring  lots  of  news  upon  your  return. 
All  hands  seem  to  miss  you,  and  none  more  than  I.  I  shall 
look  for  you  on  Saturday.  Give  my  love  to  Julia  and 
George. 

Your  affectionate  George. 

The  picture  of  the  old  man  referred  to  in  these  let- 
ters was  sold  in  the  executor's  sale  of  Inness  pictures 
in  1895.  The  picture  itself  brought  only  two  hun- 
dred and  eighty  dollars,  but  the  entire  amount  of  the 
whole  sale  exceeded  one  hundred  thousand  dollars. 

My  father's  enthusiasm  for  figure-painting  did  not 
last  long,  a  few  years  at  most,  but  while  it  lasted,  he 
did  some  very  noteworthy  things, ' 'The  Old  Veteran," 
or  "The  Old  Man"  being  one  of  the  best  examples. 

158 


LETTERS 

There  is  a  little  story  connected  with  this  canvas. 
It  disappeared,  as  father's  pictures  had  done  before, 
and  we  supposed  it  had  merely  gone  the  way  of  many 
of  his  best  works ;  that  being  in  need  of  a  canvas,  he 
had  painted  the  old  man  out.  We  were  resigned  to 
the  loss.  Some  time  later  the  picture  was  discovered 
beautifully  framed  in  the  home  of  a  gentleman  who 
was  one  of  Pop's  patrons.  Upon  inquiry  as  to  how 
he  got  it,  the  gentleman  replied  in  very  positive  tones 
that  he  had  purchased  it  from  George  1 1 mess  himself. 

"Never,"  said  my  father.  "I  did  not  sell  you  that 
picture." 

"Well,  Mr.  Inness,"  he  continued,  "do  you  remem- 
ber selling  me  this?"  He  pointed  to  a  landscape  of 
my  father's. 

"I  do,"  answered  Pop. 

"Well,  when  you  sold  me  that  landscape  you  sold 
me  this  old  man.  When  I  got  it  home  I  found  that 
the  canvas  on  which  you  had  painted  the  landscape 
had  been  stretched  over  the  original  canvas  of  the  old 
veteran;  therefore  I  consider  that  I  own  both  of  these 
pictures,  as  I  paid  you  for  them  when  purchasing  the 
landscape.  I  bought  the  stretcher,  with  all  that  was 
on  it." 

"I  suppose,"  said  my  father,  "that  if  you  bought  a 
pair  of  shoes  and  found  that  a  five-dollar  bill  had  ac- 
cidently  dropped  into  one  of  the  shoes  while  the  clerk 

161 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

was  wrapping  them  up,  you  would  keep  the  five  dol- 
lars.   Unless  you  return  the  old  man  to  me  I  shall  be 
obliged  to  take  the  matter  into  court." 
The  picture  was  returned. 

In  the  summer  of  1883  my  father  painted  in  Nan- 
tucket, where  .he  found  much  to  interest  him,  judging 
from  the  following  letters : 

Sconset,  Aug.  2,  1883 

My  dear  wife: 

We  are  still  having  very  fine  weather,  and  I  find  myself  in 
excellent  condition.  Everything  goes  on  well,  and  my  work 
is  advancing  with  tolerable  rapidity.  I  have  advanced  the 
picture,  commenced  while  you  were  here,  very  considerably, 
and  have  a  very  good  start  on  another  which  promises  well. 
I  am  obliged  to  refuse  to  show  my  work,  as  the  curiosity  of 
people  becomes  a  nuisance ;  so  I  told  Nichols  that  when  they 
are  finished  he  can  have  them  at  his  house,  and  put  up  a  no- 
tice on  the  town  pump  that  they  are  on  exhibition. 

I  find  plenty  of  employment,  so  that  the  time  passes  easily, 
and  if  I  improve  as  I  have  done  the  last  two  days,  I  have  no 
doubt  but  that  I  shall  gather  considerable  strength  for  the 
winter.  I  find  new  and  interesting  points  continually,  and  I 
do  not  know  but  that  the  very  grandeur  of  the  scenery  forces 
me  to  make  telling  combinations.  At  least  I  obtain  some- 
thing new  and  out  of  the  usual  run  of  subjects.  I  saw  a  very 
fine  sunset  last  evening  from  Mr.  Burbank's  house  which  with 
figures  could  be  made  interesting  and  striking,  and  I  do  not 
know  but  that  I  may  send  for  two  larger  boards  and  paint 
two  more  extensive  scenes  which  have  impressed  me.  This, 
however,  is  to  be  considered  hereafter,  as  I  wish  to  clean  up 

162 


LETTERS 


pretty  well  as  I  go  on.  Give  my  love  to  Nellie  and  kiss  the 
babies  for  me.  Tell  Rosie  that  I  may  find  something  for 
her  when  I  come  back. 

Your  affectionate  husband, 

George. 
Sconset,  Aug.  4,  1883 

My  dear  Lizzie : 

I  have  just  been  out  to  see  the  setting  of  the  sun,  strolling 
up  the  road  and  studying  the  solemn  tones  of  the  passing 
daylight.  There  is  something  peculiarly  impressive  in  the 
effects  of  the  far-stretching  distance,  the  weather-worn  gray 
of  the  buildings,  and  the  general  sense  of  solitariness  which 
quite  suits  my  present  mood.  I  find  more  and  more  to  in- 
terest me,  and  shall  no  doubt  find  my  stay  here  profitable. 
My  first  picture  is  very  nearly  complete,  and  has,  I  think,  an 
exquisite  tone  without  losing  the  sense  of  brightness.  The 
second  progresses  very  satisfactorily,  and  will  take  but  a 
few  days  more  to  finish.  The  third  picture  is  all  arranged 
and  ready  for  painting  in  color,  which  I  hope  to  do  quickly 
as  soon  as  I  am  ready  to  commence  it. 

I  have  had  a  great  success  with  another  painted  out  of 
doors  back  of  Nichols'  barn — some  sheep  coming  through  a 
gateway.  For  that  I  have  used  one  of  the  large  mill  boards, 
so  that  although  I  stroll  about  and  work  at  intervals  only, 
there  has  been  considerable  work  done. 

I  took  a  walk  just  before  dinner,  and  was  very  much  taken 
with  the  effects  of  a  broad  field,  with  its  faded  yellow  grass, 
terminating  against  a  blue  sky  with  white  clouds  sailing  along 
in  the  clear  atmosphere,  and  if  I  have  time  I  hope  to  paint 
it.  If  I  can  only  get  the  sense  of  vastness  with  which  it  im- 
presses me  I  think  a  picture  of  it  will  be  very  novel  and 
very  telling. 

163 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 


I  called  upon  Mr.  Flagg  yesterday,  who  insisted  upon  my 
staying  to  supper.  I  had  a  very  pleasant  time  and  a  bit  of 
bluefish  done  to  perfection.  I  thought  I  had  never  tasted 
anything  so  nice.  He  appears  to  be  au  fait  in  this  sort  of 
thing,  and  takes  a  great  deal  of  pride  in  having  everything 
for  his  table  done  in  the  best  manner.    I  also  called  with 

Nichols  upon  Miss  F          this  afternoon,  so  you  see  I  am 

getting  to  be  quite  a  society  man.  I  should  not  object,  how- 
ever, to  the  ladies  having  a  little  more  beauty,  for  a  homelier 
set  of  women  than  have  taken  possession  of  Sconset  I  think 
I  never  saw  together  in  one  place.  I  am  afraid,  my  dear, 
that  you  have  spoiled  me.  I  always  think — well,  I  wish  I 
could  see  my  Lizzie.  But  so  much  of  the  brown  earth  and 
blue  water  separate  us  now  that  my  only  satisfaction  must 
be  in  asking  you  to  kiss  yourself  for  me. 

Your  loving  George. 

The  following  summer  these  letters  came  from  Vir- 
ginia, where  he  made  some  very  excellent  paintings. 

Goochland  Courthouse,  Va., 

Sunday,  April,  1884 

My  dear  wife: 

I  have  read  your  two  letters,  and  you  may  be  sure  that  I 
am  much  gratified  at  finding  you  greatly  gratified  at  my  suc- 
cess. I  am  glad,  darling,  that  I  am  able  to  contribute  to 
your  pleasure  in  life.  I  am  very  busy  now  and  have  been 
since  you  left.  I  painted  a  twenty  by  thirty  to-day  from 
nature,  and  it  is  a  great  success.  Wind  clouds,  a  plowed 
field,  with  a  sower  and  oxen  in  a  road  in  the  foreground.  It 
looks  very  breezy  and  like  out  of  doors.  I  have  now  thir- 
teen pictures,  studies,  and  sketches.  I  think,  after  all,  the 
prisoner  is  going  to  prove  a  decided  success.  It  has  been 
very  warm  to-day,  rather  uncomfortable  sitting  in  the  sun. 

164 


From  the  Butler  collection  in  The  Art  Institute  of  Chicago 

EARLY  MORNING — TARPON  SPRINGS 


LETTERS 


Then  foliage  is  gradually  coming  out,  and  the  grass  does  not 
make  much  headway. 

I  hardly  know  what  to  think  of  California,  but  have  plenty 
of  time  to  make  up  my  mind.  I  shall  start  for  home  on  Wed- 
nesday week.  When  do  you  expect  to  go  to  Milton?  I  want 
to  get  to  New  York  before  you  go  if  I  can,  as  I  presume  I 
will  have  to  stay  in  the  city  a  day  or  two.  If  I  conclude  to 
go  to  the  Yosemite,  however,  your  stay  at  Milton  will  be 
short.  Let  me  know  your  plans  in  that  event.  I  have  a 
little  work  to  do  this  evening,  so  I  will  write  no  more.  Ev- 
ery instant  is  occupied  till  bedtime  now,  yet  my  health  is  bet- 
ter than  usual,  as  I  do  a  great  deal  of  walking.  I  have 
walked  about  seven  miles  to-day.    Give  my  love  to  all. 

Yours  affectionately, 

George. 

Goochland  Courthouse,  Va., 

Wednesday,  May,  1884 

My  dear  wife: 

I  received  two  of  your  welcome  letters  yesterday,  and 
should  have  written  last  night,  but  was  so  busy  through  the 
day  that  I  could  not  bring  myself  up  to  writing.  The  study 
I  wrote  you  last  about  I  consider  the  most  desirable  of  all, 
as  I  have  attained  a  certain  thing  which  I  had  not  as  yet  got 
thoroughly  hold  of.  I  feel  sometimes  provoked  that  the 
figure-picture  has  cost  me  so  much  time,  but  it  is  doing  this 
that  has  enabled  me  to  do  the  other  quickly,  and  besides  the 
figure-picture  promises  to  be  all  that  I  aimed  at  and  a  re- 
markable piece  of  landscape  and  figure  combination  ;  yet  what 
is  curious,  the  modeling  of  the  grass  is  the  most  difficult  part 
of  it.  I  want  to  make  one  other  study,  and  then  I  think  I 
shall  begin  my  preparation  for  moving.  I  want  you  to  send 
me  a  check  for  twenty-five  dollars,  as  I  leave  sooner  than 

167 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

Wednesday  next.  I  may  go  to  Richmond  and  make  a  sketch 
of  a  scene  which  impressed  me  very  much,  and  then  return  by 
the  Shenandoah  road  to  Washington  and  spend  a  day  there, 
and  I  may  not  have  enough. 

I  shall  be  with  you  again  in  a  week. 

Yours  affectionately, 

George. 

He  did  go  to  California  soon  after  this,  where  he 
painted  scenes  of  the  Yosemite  Valley  and  other  parts 
of  the  State,  and  later  spent  several  winters  in  Florida. 

That  my  father  was  an  impressionist  in  the  highest 
sense  of  the  word  cannot  be  denied,  but  he  abhorred 
the  name  and  what  it  stood  for  in  its  generally  ac- 
cepted terms.  In  reply  to  a  criticism  of  Inness's 
work  which  was  published  in  a  newspaper  which  I 
have  entirely  lost  track  of,  I  find  this  letter : 

Tarpon  Springs,  Florida 

Editor  Ledger : 

A  copy  of  your  letter  has  been  handed  to  me  in  which  I 
find  your  art  editor  has  classified  my  work  among  the  "Im- 
pressionists." The  article  is  certainly  all  that  I  could  ask 
in  the  way  of  compliment.  I  am  sorry,  however,  that  either 
of  my  works  should  have  been  so  lacking  in  the  necessary  de- 
tail that  from  a  legitimate  landscape-painter  I  have  come  to 
be  classed  as  a  follower  of  the  new  fad  "Impressionism."  As, 
however,  no  evil  extreme  enters  the  world  of  mind  except  as 
an  effort  of  life  to  restore  the  balance  disturbed  by  some 
previous  extreme,  in  this  instance  say  Preraphaelism.  Ab- 
surdities frequently  prove  to  be  the  beginnings  of  uses  end- 

168 


LETTERS 


ing  in  a  clearer  understanding  of  the  legitimate  as  the  ra- 
tionale of  the  question  involved. 

We  are  all  the  subjects  of  impressions,  and  some  of  us 
legitimates  seek  to  convey  our  impressions  to  others.  In  the 
art  of  communicating  impressions  lies  the  power  of  general- 
izing without  losing  that  logical  connection  of  parts  to  the 
whole  which  satisfies  the  mind. 

The  elements  of  this,  therefore,  are  solidity  of  objects  and 
transparency  of  shadows  in  a  breathable  atmosphere  through 
which  we  are  conscious  of  spaces  and  distances.  By  the 
rendering  of  these  elements  we  suggest  the  invisible  side  of 
visible  objects.  These  elements  constitute  the  grammar  of 
painting,  and  the  want  of  that  grammar  gives  to  pictures 
either  the  flatness  of  the  silhouette  or  the  vulgarity  of  an 
over-strained  objectivity  or  the  puddling  twaddle  of 
Preraphaelism. 

Every  fad  immediately  becomes  so  involved  in  its  applica- 
tion of  its  want  of  understanding  of  its  mental  origin  and 
that  the  great  desire  of  people  to  label  men  and  things  that 
one  extreme  is  made  to  meet  with  the  other  in  a  muddle  of 
unseen  life  application.  And  as  no  one  is  long  what  he  la- 
bels himself,  we  see  realists  whose  power  is  in  a  strong  poetic 
sense  as  with  Corbet.  And  Impressionists,  who  from  a  de- 
sire to  give  a  little  objective  interest  to  their  pancake  of 
color,  seek  aid  from  the  weakness  of  Preraphaelism,  as  with 
Monet.  Monet  made  by  the  power  of  life  through  another 
kind  of  humbug.  For  when  people  tell  me  that  the  painter 
sees  nature  in  the  way  the  Impressionists  paint  it,  I  say, 
"Humbug" !  from  the  lie  of  intent  to  the  lie  of  ignorance. 

Monet  induces  the  humbug  of  the  first  form  and  the  stu- 
pidity of  the  second.  Through  malformed  eyes  we  see  im- 
perfectly and  are  subjects  for  the  optician.  Though  the 
normally  formed  eye  sees  within  degrees  of  distinctness  and 

169 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

without  blur  we  want  for  good  art  sound  eyesight.  It  is 
well  known  that  we  through  the  eye  realize  the  objective  only 
through  the  experiences  of  life.  All  is  flat,  and  the  mind  is 
in  no  realization  of  space  except  its  powers  are  exercised 
through  the  sense  of  feeling.  That  is,  what  is  objective  to 
us  is  a  response  to  the  universal  principle  of  truth. 

Some  things  touch  one  more  than  another,  and  loving 
what  touches  us  agreeably  and  disliking  what  touches  us  dis- 
agreeably, we  look  more  at  what  we  love  than  what  we  do 
not  love;  hence  he  learns  to  paint  first  what  he  loves  best,  but 
our  love  for  certain  forms,  tones,  or  things  cause  us  grad- 
ually to  tolerate  other  forms,  and  as  connected  with  those  we 
love  through  the  alchemy  of  life  in  various  ways,  so  that  we 
tend  eventually  to  ideas  of  harmonies  in  which  parts  are  re- 
lated by  the  mind  to  an  idea  of  unity  of  thought.  From 
that  unity  of  thought  mind  controls  the  eye  to  its  own  intent 
within  the  units  of  that  idea ;  consequently  we  learn  to  see 
in  accord  with  ideas  developed  by  the  power  of  life,  which  also 
leads  us  through  our  own  affections.  Hence  every  one  sees 
somewhat  differently. 

The  art  of  painting  is  the  development  of  the  human  mind, 
and  to  deny  its  traditions  is  the  sign  of  an  art  fool;  but  to 
translate  its  traditions  into  new  forms  is  the  sign  of  a  pro- 
gressive art  mind  full  and  independent  in  his  own  concepts 
of  nature,  but  bound  to  the  past  as  the  source  of  his  inspira- 
tion. Originality  outside  of  this  truth  is  childishness,  and 
its  products  absurd.  The  first  great  principle  in  art  is 
unity  representing  directness  of  intent,  the  second  is  order 
representing  cause,  and  the  third  is  realization  representing 
effect. 

When  the  savage  draws  his  hieroglyphics  for  the  informa- 
tion of  his  companions,  cause  and  effect  are  sufficiently  con- 

170 


LETTERS 

sidered  in  the  intent ;  all  his  art  is  united  to  an  end  acknowl- 
edged to  be  legitimate,  and  any  power  which  sufficiently  ren- 
ders the  forms  for  recognition  in  that  way  would  be  good  art 
to  that  end.  When  Raphael  drew  his  Hampton  cartoons 
his  drawing,  most  of  it  great  in  the  impression  given  of  power 
to  do,  was  amply  sufficient  to  the  end  of  the  story,  which 
impresses  one  directly — here  is  great  art.  When  Leighton 
painted  the  walls  at  Kensington  the  excellent  workman  so 
forgot  the  end  in  view  that  the  story  has  to  be  hunted  out, — 
here  is  a  work  with  an  intent  outside  of  itself  as  a  use,  and 
that  intent  was  to  show  his  skill, — this  is  bad  art,  in  which  an 
impression  is  made  upon  the  spectator  involving  an  intent 
not  in  order  with  the  one  assured.  The  artist  was  not  one 
with  his  subject;  without  inspiration  he  was  in  the  sphere  of 
twaddle.  This  is  that  very  honest  and  highly  respectable 
kind  of  humbug  in  the  art  world  which  we  are  apt  to  fall  into 
more  or  less,  against  which  the  impression  is  a  protest. 

I  have  tones  done  on  the  boards  of  the  loft  which  I  occupy 
here  by  a  little  darky  whom  I  employ  to  wash  brushes  and  so 
forth  which  are  very  tony.  In  fact,  give  me  the  same  im- 
pression that  did  the  first  Monet  it  was  my  luck  to  see.  His 
had  a  little  more  white  in  it,  but  the  style  was  about  the 
same.  Now,  however,  Monet  decorated  an  impressionless 
plane  with  a  dab  of  paint  apparently  in  childlike  imitation  of 
trees,  houses,  and  so  forth  without  substance.  Since  the 
beginning  "The  Art  of  the  Future,"  as  it  is  called,  has  de- 
veloped in  a  great  variety  of  impressionists  whose  works  I 
have  not  seen,  as  I  am  not  interested  in  painters  who  find  it 
necessary  to  label  themselves.  I  admire  the  robust  ideas  of 
Corbet,  but  not  his  realism ;  that  was  his  curse.  It  appears 
as  though  the  Impressionists  were  imbued  with  the  idea  to 
divest  painting  of  all  mental  attributes  and,  overleaping  the 

173 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 


traveled  road  which  art  has  created  by  hard  labor,  by  plas- 
tering over  and  presenting  us  with  the  original  pancake  of 
visual  imbecility,  the  childlike  naivete  of  unexpressed  vision. 

Later,  while  discussing  the  subject  of  Impressions, 
he  said : 

I  am  seventy  years  of  age,  and  the  whole  study  of  my  life 
has  been  to  find  out  what  it  is  that  is  in  myself.  What  is 
this  thing  we  call  life  and  how  does  it  operate?  Upon  these 
questions  my  ideas  have  become  clearer  and  clearer,  and  what 
I  hold  is  that  the  Creator  never  makes  two  things  alike  or 
any  two  men  alike.  Every  man  has  a  different  impression 
of  what  he  sees,  and  that  impression  constitutes  feeling,  and 
every  man  has  a  different  feeling. 

Now  there  has  sprung  up  a  new  school,  a  mere  passing  fad, 
called  Impressionism,  the  followers  of  which  pretend  to  study 
from  nature  and  paint  it  as  it  is.  All  these  sorts  of  things 
I  am  down  on.  I  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  them.  They 
are  shams. 

The  fact  came  to  my  mind  in  the  beginning  of  my  career. 
I  would  sit  down  before  nature,  and  under  the  impulse  of  a 
sympathetic  feeling  put  something  on  canvas  more  or  less 
like  what  I  was  aiming  at.  It  would  not  be  a  correct  por- 
trait of  the  scene,  perhaps,  but  it  would  have  a  charm.  Cer- 
tain artists  and  certain  Philistines  would  see  that  and  would 
say:  "Yes,  there  is  a  certain  charm  about  it,  but  did  you 
paint  it  outdoors?  If  so,  you  could  not  have  seen  it  this 
and  that  and  the  other."  I  could  not  deny  it,  because  I  then 
thought  we  saw  physically  and  with  the  physical  eye  alone. 
Then  I  went  to  work  again  and  painted  what  I  thought  I  saw, 
calling  on  my  memory  to  supply  missing  details.  The  result 
was  that  the  picture  had  no  charm ;  nothing  about  it  was 

174 


LETTERS 


beautiful.  What  was  the  reason?  When  I  tried  to  do  my 
duty  and  paint  faithfully  I  did  n't  get  much ;  when  I  did  n't 
care  so  much  for  duty  I  got  something  more  or  less  admi- 
rable. As  I  went  on  I  began  to  see  little  by  little  that  my 
feeling  was  governed  by  a  certain  principle  that  I  did  not 
then  understand  as  such. 

But  these  are  merely  scientific  formulas.  Every  artist 
must,  after  all,  depend  on  his  feeling,  and  what  I  have  devoted 
myself  to  is  to  try  to  find  out  the  law  of  the  unit ;  that  is,  of 
impression.  Landscape  is  a  continued  repetition  of  the  same 
thing  in  a  different  form  and  in  a  different  feeling.  When 
we  go  outdoors  our  minds  are  overloaded;  we  do  not  know 
where  to  go  to  work.  You  can  only  achieve  something  if  you 
have  an  ambition  so  powerful  as  to  forget  yourself,  or  if  you 
are  up  in  the  science  of  your  art.  If  a  man  can  be  an  eter- 
nal God  when  he  is  outside,  then  he  is  all  right;  if  not,  he 
must  fall  back  on  science. 

The  worst  of  it  is  that  all  thinkers  are  apt  to  become  dog- 
matic, and  every  dogma  fails  because  it  does  not  give  you  the 
other  side.  The  same  is  true  of  all  things — art,  religion,  and 
everything  else.  You  must  find  a  third  as  your  standpoint 
of  reason.  That  is  how  I  came  to  work  in  the  science  of 
geometry,  which  is  the  only  abstract  truth,  the  diversion  of 
the  art  of  consciousness  and  so  on,  which  I  have  already  men- 
tioned. 

And  no  one  can  conceive  the  mental  struggles  and  tor- 
ment I  went  through  before  I  could  master  the  whole  thing. 
I  knew  the  principle  was  true,  but  it  would  not  work  right. 
I  had  constantly  to  violate  my  principle  to  get  in  my  feeling. 
This  was  my  third.  I  found  I  was  right,  and  went  on  in 
perfect  confidence,  and  I  have  my  understanding  under  per- 
fect control,  except  when  I  overwork  myself,  when  I  am  liable 
to  get  wriggly,  like  anybody  else.    Then  I  shut  myself  up 

175 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

with  my  books  and  write,  applying  the  principles  I  have 
found  true  in  art  to  pure  reasoning  on  the  subject  of  the- 
ology. That  is  what  you  see  in  my  pictures,  that  is  the 
feeling  and  the  sentiment.  I  have  always  had  it,  but  have 
not  always  understood  the  principles  which  govern  it. 

When  I  grow  weary  of  painting  I  take  to  theology.  That 
is  the  only  thing  except  art  which  interests  me.  In  my 
theory,  in  fact,  they  are  very  closely  connected.  That  is, 
you  may  say  it  is  theology,  but  it  has  resolved  itself  grad- 
ually into  a  scientific  form,  and  that  is  the  development 
which  has  become  so  very  interesting  to  me. 


170 


CHAPTER  X 


SUCCESS  AND  RECOGNITION 


OT  until  he  was  past  middle  life  did  pros- 
perity smile  upon  George  Inness,  but  those 
years  of  devotion  to  ideals  were  to  be  re- 


warded, and  in  a  way  that  few  are  privileged  to  expe- 
rience ;  the  full  and  complete  recognition  of  his  genius. 
In  the  summer  of  1878  we  went  to  Montclair,  New 
Jersey,  where  father  rented  a  little  cottage  on  Grove 
Street.  There  we  used  two  little  outhouses  on  the 
place  for  studios.  Up  to  this  time,  and  in  fact  for 
several  years  after,  the  selling  of  pictures  was  more  or 
less  desultory.  But  when  Mr.  Roswell- Smith  pur- 
chased a  large  canvas  of  Mount  Washington  for  five 
thousand  dollars,  Pop  was  for  the  time  being  relieved 
of  financial  stress  and  was  enabled  to  paint  unham- 
pered for  a  while.  Mr.  Roswell- Smith,  who  later  be- 
came my  father-in-law,  was  the  founder  of  "The  Cen- 
tury Magazine,"  and  through  his  interest  my  fa- 
ther's career  received  a  great  impetus.  Later,  Pop 
being  dissatisfied  with  the  Mount  Washington  canvas, 
exchanged  it  for  the  now  famous  Niagara,  which  was 
painted  under  rather  amusing  circumstances.  Pop 


177 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

had  been  out  to  see  the  falls,  and  he  became  so  fired 
with  an  inspiration  to  paint  it  that  he  rushed  to  the 
studio  of  his  old  friend  Selsted,  in  Buffalo,  and  rous- 
ing him  from  his  bed  at  an  unholy  hour,  demanded 
studio,  paints,  canvas,  and  brushes,  in  fact,  everything 
that  he  needed. 

"I  must  paint,  Selsted,"  he  said.  4 'Quick!  I  can't 
wait  a  minute ;  I  must  get  my  impression  of  the  falls 
down  right  away."  And  poor  Selsted,  like  all  the 
rest  of  us,  gave  up  everything,  and  was  not  allowed  to 
use  his  studio  or  anything  in  it  until  the  sketch  was 
made,  which  I  might  add  was  taken  from  an  imag- 
inary point  in  the  middle  of  the  rapids.  The  finished 
canvas  was  later  painted  in  the  studio  in  the  old  Uni- 
versity building  on  E.  Washington  Square.  It  is  a 
large  canvas  and  shows  a  cool  crisp  light  as  of  the 
morning.  The  sky  is  delicate  gray-blue,  flecked  with 
pink-tinged  clouds.  The  distant  hills  are  bedecked 
with  buildings  that  flash  and  twinkle  in  the  rosy  light. 
The  great  curved  horse  shoe  line  cuts  across  the  vision 
and  holds  one  spellbound  as  he  gazes  on  that  mighty 
rush  of  green-lit  water  as  it  tumbles  with  crashing 
force  and  thunders  over  the  titanic  rocks,  to  rise  again 
in  a  swirl  of  maddened  fury,  in  defiance  of  the  chasm 
far  beneath.  High  above  the  rim  an  eagle  soars  and 
through  the  rising  mist  a  rainbow  glistens. 

Not  long  after  the  sale  of  the  Mount  Washington, 

178 


SUCCESS  AND  RECOGNITION 

Benjamin  Constant,  the  great  French  portrait- 
painter,  came  to  this  country,  and  proved  to  be  an  im- 
portant factor  in  the  establishment  of  my  father's  suc- 
cess and  fame.  He  discovered  in  George  Inness  a 
master  of  art,  and  wonderful  was  the  scene  of  those 
two  great  painters  exclaiming  and  gesticulating. 
Neither  could  understand  the  words  spoken  by  the 
other,  but  the  picture  is  so  vividly  before  me  I  shall 
never  forget  it.  They  were  seated  on  the  floor, 
sketches  strewn  about  them,  expressions  of  delight  on 
their  faces,  hands  going  in  every  direction,  punctuated 
with  exclamations  such  as  "Tres  bien/'  "magnifique" 
"chef-d'oeuvre,"  and  others. 

The  outcome  of  it  was  that  Constant  took  back  to 
Paris  a  number  of  these  sketches  to  show  the  French 
artists  what  had  sprung  up  in  America.  He  brought 
Inness  to  the  attention  of  Bouissart-Vallidon  &  Com- 
pany, with  the  advice  to  buy  all  the  Innesses  they 
could  get. 

The  year  after  my  father's  death — that  is,  in  1895 
— the  following  article  by  Constant  appeared  in  "The 
New  York  Times": 

When  I  came  to  this  country  for  the  first  time  in  1890  I 
had  the  pleasure  and  honor  to  form  an  acquaintance  with 
George  Inness,  who  received  me  at  his  country  house  in  a 
most  charming  manner,  and  showed  me  all  the  landscapes  he 
had  there  on  his  easel.    Some  of  these  I  see  again  to-day, 

179 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

after  his  lamented  demise,  and  being  urged  by  a  friend  to 
write  a  few  lines,  as  I  had  previously  done  in  1890  in  "The 
New  York  Times"  about  the  exhibition  of  Mr.  Richard  H. 
Halsted's  collection  of  Inness's  work  at  the  American  Art 
Galleries,  I  am  willing  to  act  as  a  critic  of  art,  provided 
painters  may  be  allowed  to  write  on  painting.  Perhaps  I 
may  be  permitted  to  do  so,  once  in  a  while  at  any  rate,  if  it 
be  only  to  please  a  friend  and  myself.  The  moral  and  physi- 
cal personality  of  George  Inness  has  made  a  lasting  im- 
pression on  my  mind.  He  was  naturally  nervous,  impres- 
sionable, sensitive  to  the  richness  of  coloring,  to  its  enamel, 
to  its  material  as  well  as  sensitive  to  the  poetical  and  quick 
effects  of  nature.  Living  as  he  was  in  the  very  midst  of 
the  latter,  looking  about  its  grandeur,  its  marvels  of  light, 
he  especially  liked  the  evenings  of  autumn,  the  autumn  of  his 
native  country.  He  brought  out  of  it  powerful  works,  full 
of  emotion  and  painted  in  a  rutilant  color.  He  was  always 
careful,  however,  to  retain  for  all  painting  its  special  quali- 
ties of  material  and  enamel,  and  never  tried  to  put  the  essen- 
tial qualities  of  either  pastel  or  coater  colors  into  oil-paint- 
ing. Thus  he  was  proceeding  from  Millet,  Jules  Dupre, 
and  Rousseau,  while  preserving  his  original  work.  We  al- 
ways proceed  from  the  time  in  which  we  live,  and  the  works 
which  have  impressed  us  at  the  beginning  of  our  career ;  but 
our  personality  comes  out,  however.  Baudry  and  Chav- 
annes,  in  their  decorative  works,  proceeded  from  the  Italian 
masters  of  the  fifteenth  and  sixteenth  centuries,  although  in 
a  different  degree;  the  English  school  of  the  beginning  of 
the  century  had  influence  over  Delacroix.  A  new  art  cannot 
be  born  in  a  day ;  a  whole  century  is  hardly  sufficient  for  it. 
But  I  must  speak  now  of  the  works  that  I  like  best  among  Mr. 
Halsted's  collection  of  Inness  work.  Number  Seven  would, 
if  signed  by  Turner,  Millet,  or  Corot,  be  worth  ten  thou- 

180 


SUCCESS  AND  RECOGNITION 

sand  dollars  and  over.  In  my  view  it  is  equivalent  to  the  best 
landscape  ever  painted  by  any  great  landscape-painter.  No 
warm  and  stormy  day  in  June  has  ever  been  felt  better  or 
expressed  better.  Nature  has  been  sometimes  seen  as  if  it 
were  asleep  in  a  golden  atmosphere,  when  there  was  no  wind, 
but  an  oppressive  air  full  of  languor.  The  sun  behind  the 
clouds  was  not  throwing  any  shade  under  the  trees.  Waters 
were  still  in  the  shallow  rivers ;  one  could  feel  that  not  a  single 
leaf  was  trembling.    Nature  was  taking  her  afternoon's  nap. 

Now,  in  my  opinion,  Inness,  as  I  remember  him,  must  have 
had  such  a  feeling  when  he  painted  that  magnificent  piece  of 
art,  which  is  undoubtedly  of  the  highest  order.  The  color- 
ing of  the  green  tones  is  positively  delightful,  for  it  may  be 
said  that  no  eye  was  ever  more  sensitive  than  Inness's  to 
the  richness  of  the  green  tones  brought  about  by  the  summer 
light.  This  painting  should  be  at  the  Metropolitan  Museum 
of  Art.  Number  Twenty  is  brother  to  number  seven,  and 
shows  the  same  skill  in  coloring  the  strong  light  and  storms 
of  summer.  The  coloring  of  this  souvenir  of  a  storm  in  sum- 
mer is  really  exquisite.  Turner  has  never  brought  together 
his  remembrances  of  a  day  like  this  with  more  richness  of 
material  or  a  more  observing  mind.  Number  Three  is  a  con- 
tinuation of  a  series  that  is  a  real  apotheosis  of  the  sun. 
Number  Fifteen  shows  white,  green  tones  in  a  gray,  rainy 
sky,  forerunner  of  a  storm,  which  are  enameled  in  a  surpris- 
ingly artistic  manner.  The  symphony  of  the  green  tones, 
supported  and  accompanied  by  the  gray  clouds,  is  masterly 
scored.  Number  Six  is  a  good  painting,  and  so  is  number 
Thirteen.  These  lines  are  but  brief  homage  to  true  talent. 
When  the  time  comes,  and  it  will  come  sooner  or  later,  to  do 
full  justice  to  George  Inness,  I  shall  be  glad  to  have  been  one 
of  the  first,  perhaps,  who  felt  an  artistic  emotion  in  con- 
templating these  paintings,  which  so  clearly  show  the  impres- 

183 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

sionality  of  a  thorough  artist,  a  lover  of  nature,  and  an  exec- 
utor of  rare  merit. 

Some  time  previous  to  my  father's  meeting  with 
Constant,  Mr.  Thomas  B.  Clarke  had  come  into  his 
life,  and  had  become  one  of  his  closest  friends  and  pa- 
trons, through  whose  persistent  faith  in  Inness's  work 
a  number  of  other  patrons  were  brought  to  him, 
among  those  who  made  extensive  collections,  Mr. 
George  I.  Seney,  Mr.  Benjamin  Altman,  Mr.  James 
W.  Ellsworth,  and  Mr.  Richard  H.  Halsted.  So 
firm  became  the  friendship  with  Mr.  Clarke  that  my 
father  finally  induced  him  not  only  to  advise  him,  but 
to  take  over  the  management  of  his  pictures.  So  ex- 
cellent was  his  management  and  so  far  had  Inness 
risen  to  fame  that  success  and  recognition  came  rap- 
idly. He  now  found  himself  in  the  full  attainment  of 
a  position  of  ease.  For  sixteen  years,  until  his  death, 
he  sailed  his  bark  through  smooth  waters.  With  the 
financial  struggle  over  he  retired  from  the  world  of 
trade  and  barter,  and  settled  in  Montclair,  where  he 
bought  the  old  Mapes  homestead  on  Grove  Street. 
Here  he  built  a  studio  and  painted  as  he  had  long  de- 
sired, unhampered  by  commercial  and  financial  cares. 
But  the  end  of  his  struggles  did  not  mean  the  end  of 
his  usefulness.  Far  from  it;  for  he  painted  up  to  the 
time  of  his  death,  and  in  the  last  few  years  of  his  life 
he  developed  a  breadth  and  technic  in  his  work  which 

184 


SUCCESS  AND  RECOGNITION 

closely  correspond  to  the  breadth  of  his  mental  and 
spiritual  unfolding. 

My  father  was  the  most  modest  and  unassuming 
of  men.  His  fame  was  spread  abroad,  to  be  sure,  and 
wherever  he  went  he  was  treated  royally;  but  he  re- 
mained to  the  day  of  his  death  the  plain,  simple- 
hearted  great  man  that  he  was.  To  be  made  a  lion  of 
embarrassed  him,  and  he  did  not  like  it ;  in  fact,  he  saw 
no  reason  in  it.  He  lived  for  his  art,  and  was  affected 
neither  by  praise  nor  criticism.  The  joy  of  self-ex- 
pression brought  its  own  reward.  My  mother  told 
me  once,  with  a  merry  chuckle,  of  a  visit  she  and  Pop 
made  to  The  Palmer  House,  Chicago.  As  I  have 
said,  mother  held  the  purse,  and  was  therefore  to 
judge  of  just  how  far  they  could  indulge  in  the  luxury 
of  the  famous  hostelry;  so  she  engaged  a  room  at  a 
very  moderate  rate  for  such  a  hotel.  Father,  having 
discovered  that  Mr.  Palmer  had  an  office  in  the  house, 
left  his  card  for  that  gentleman  at  the  desk.  After 
registering,  they  were  shown  to  their  modest  quarters, 
unpacked  their  bags,  and  prepared  to  make  them- 
selves at  home.  A  few  moments  later  a  bell-boy  ap- 
peared to  inform  that  a  mistake  had  been  made,  and 
the  room  assigned  to  them  was  on  another  floor. 
Greatly  annoyed  at  having  to  repack,  my  mother  ex- 
pressed her  opinion  in  no  uncertain  terms  of  the  clerk 
who  had  made  such  a  stupid  mistake. 

185 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 
However,  they  were  moved,  bag  and  baggage,  to 
the  first  floor  front,  and  found  themselves  ensconced 
in  a  magnificent  suite  of  rooms.  Father  was  im- 
mensely pleased,  but  mother,  thinking  the  clerk's  mis- 
take was  assuming  alarming  proportions,  now  ex- 
pressed her  mind  more  freely,  and,  remonstrating  with 
the  boy,  insisted  that  they  had  engaged  no  such  rooms 
an  J  refused  to  stay  in  them.  But  the  boy  was  equally 
insistent  that  he  was  only  carrying  out  orders,  and  left 
them  alone. 

''This  is  ridiculous,"  said  my  mother,  "these  rooms 
will  cost  us  a  fortune,  and  we  must  adjust  this  mistake 
immediately." 

"Oh,  well,"  protested  Pop,  "we  can  afford  it  for 
one  night,  and  I  should  like  to  have  the  experience  of 
feeling  like  a  potentate." 

"No,"  insisted  mother,  and  as  she  was  about  to  leave 
the  room  to  remedy  the  situation  there  was  a  knock  at 
the  door,  and  a  boy  entered,  bearing  baskets  of  beauti- 
ful fruit  and  flowers  and  a  note  from  Mr.  Palmer, 
saying  that  he  would  do  himself  the  honor  of  calling 
upon  them,  and  hoped  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Inness 
would  remain  as  his  guests  as  long  as  they  were  in 
Chicago. 

They  accepted  Mr.  Palmer's  hospitality,  and  were 
treated  so  royally  that  even  Pop  wished  for  white 
gloves  and  a  swallow-tail. 

186 


SUCCESS  AND  RECOGNITION 

In  looking  over  some  old  letters  I  came  across  this 
one  which  tells  the  story  in  my  father's  own  words. 
It  is  the  property  of  Mr.  Thomas  B.  Clarke,  to  whom 
the  letter  is  addressed. 

Palmer  House,  Chicago,  October  31,  1889 
My  dear  Mr.  Clarke-. 

Just  as  I  was  stepping  into  the  carriage  on  Tuesday  for 
the  train  I  remembered  that  I  had  not  paid  my  dues  at  the 
Century  for  the  November  term,  and  as  I  knew  Hartley  had 
no  more  ready  money  than  he  needed,  I  asked  him  to  write  to 
you.  I  find  that  I  have  neglected  my  own  account  until  there 
is  only  about  fourteen  dollars  to  my  credit,  so  I  inclose  my 
wife's  check  for  the  amount. 

On  our  arrival  here  we  took  a  moderate  board  at  seven 
dollars,  which  my  wife  thought  would  answer  our  purpose  for 
the  two  or  three  days  of  our  intended  stay  here.  Thinking 
that  Mr.  Palmer  had  an  office  here,  I  called  upon  him  as  the 
first  best  thing  to  do.  As  soon  as  registrations  were  made, 
I  found  myself  received  with  the  greatest  cordiality,  and  in 
a  few  moments  we  were  occupying  D.  E.  on  the  first  floor 
front,  with  every  convenience,  and  a  pile  of  extra  dinner- 
tickets  for  friends,  and  a  couple  of  large  vases  of  elegant 
fruit,  enough  to  last  us  a  week.  Of  course  I  had  to  accept 
what  Mr.  Palmer  insisted  was  only  a  great  pleasure  to 
him. 

I  then  called  upon  Mr.  Ellsworth,  and  then  there  was  an- 
other insistence  that  we  should  at  once  make  his  house  our 
home.  Mr.  Palmer  insists  that  we  shall  stay  here  until  Mon- 
day at  least,  so  that  I  shall  probably  get  no  nearer  the  point 
of  our  destination  before  the  middle  of  next  week,  probably 
Thursday.    My  necessary  visit  to  the  studio  on  Monday  last 

189 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

upset  me  somewhat,  but  I  am  feeling  a  great  deal  better  this 
morning,  and  I  have  no  doubt  but  that  I  shall  be  all  right  in 
a  day  or  two. 

I  intended  to  write  to  you  further  about  picture  matters, 
but  I  will  leave  that  for  a  few  days  when  the  ground  will  be 
further  opened  and  I  shall  be  in  better  condition. 

Yours  truly, 

George  Inness. 

Because  of  my  father's  intolerant  attitude  of  other 
people's  opinions  where  his  own  work  was  concerned, 
he  was  continually  getting  into  trouble,  and  but  for 
Mr.  Clarke's  diplomatic  handling  of  these  rather  awk- 
ward situations  many  of  his  patrons  would  have  be- 
come totally  estranged.  One  instance  of  this  remains 
vividly  in  my  mind.  A  New  York  gentleman  bought 
a  picture  from  my  father  that  he  admired  greatly,  say- 
ing that  he  would  send  for  it  the  next  day.  He  had 
hardly  left  the  studio  before  Pop  began  to  "tickle  it 
up"  a  little  to  carry  out  a  thought.  He  kept  on  ' 'tick- 
ling it  up"  until  the  canvas  was  an  entirely  different 
picture,  and  one  that,  I  regret  to  say,  had  lost  rather 
than  gained  in  the  process  of  tickling. 

The  next  day  the  gentleman  came  to  the  studio  to 
see  his  picture,  and,  finding  it  unrecognizable,  insisted 
that  this  canvas  was  not  his. 

"Yes,  it  is,"  replied  Inness.  "I  have  changed  it 
just  a  little  to  give  it  snap." 

190 


SUCCESS  AND  RECOGNITION 

"Why,  the  picture 's  ruined,"  said  the  purchaser, 
"and  I  refuse  to  take  it." 

"Very  well,"  answered  my  father;  "you  couldn't 
have  it  now  at  any  price.  Your  money  cannot  buy  my 
art.  I  give  you  what  I  choose,  and  whether  you  like 
it  or  not  is  a  matter  of  indifference  to  me.  What 
right  have  you  to  tell  me  what  you  like  or  what  you  do 
not  like?  I  am  the  only  one  capable  of  judging  my 
own  work.  The  picture  is  finer  than  it  was ;  it  had  no 
strength  before." 

For  all  his  blustering  manner,  dear  old  Pop  knew 
that  his  patron  was  right  and  that  the  picture  was 
ruined,  and  he  knew  that  he  had  been  a  fool  to  touch 
it.  But  he  had  to  do  something  to  cover  up  his  em- 
barrassment and  chagrin,  so  he  continued  to  throw 
all  the  blame  on  his  innocent  patron,  who,  he  declared, 
would  cut  a  better  figure  before  a  stock-broker's 
ticker  than  sitting  there  telling  him  how  and  when  to 
paint.  Justly  indignant,  the  gentleman  walked  out 
of  the  studio  and  to  his  friend  Clarke,  who  had  orig- 
inally introduced  him  to  Inness,  and  to  whom  he  told 
the  whole  story,  declaring  that  he  would  never  give 
to  "that  ranting  fool"  another  chance  to  insult  him. 
But  Mr.  Clarke,  who  understood  and  loved  them  both 
and  would  not  see  a  break  between  them,  said : 

"Never  mind,  old  man.  You  know  Inness  well 
enough  to  know  that  he  would  not  intentionally  insult 

191 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

you  for  the  world.  He  is  in  a  high-strung,  nervous 
condition,  and  is  no  doubt  suffering  this  moment  to 
think  that  he  lost  his  temper  and  acted  like  a  brute. 
I  will  just  run  around  and  see  him." 

Upon  entering  the  studio  Clarke  noticed  imme- 
diately the  nervous  state  my  father  was  in,  and  was 
wise  enough  to  sit  quite  still  and  not  refer  in  any  way 
to  the  episode  which  had  occurred  that  morning.  Fa- 
ther, ignoring  his  presence,  kept  right  on  painting. 
It  happened  to  be  the  canvas  in  dispute.  He  was 
never  disturbed  by  an  audience ;  in  fact,  he  rather  liked 
one,  because  it  gave  him  an  opportunity  to  talk  and 
to  expound  his  theories.  So  after  painting  in  silence 
for  a  while,  he  turned  to  Clarke  and  said : 

"I  got  in  quite  a  muddle  over  this  in  trying  to  fix  the 
sky.  It  lacked  sparkle  and  interest.  Sometimes, 
Clarke,  it  is  hard  to  find  just  where  the  thing  is  wrong ; 
it  does  n't  seem  to  hitch.  It  may  be  in  the  sky  or  in 
the  patch  of  light  across  the  foreground;  and  then 
you  will  find  that  it  is  n't  that  at  all,  but  the  fault  lies 
in  the  composition,  and  those  trees  in  the  right  are  out 
of  place  and  mar  the  breadth  and  grandeur  of  the  pic- 
ture. Rut  then  the  misery  of  the  thing  is  that  you  can 
never  get  back  the  thing  you  had  before  you  touched 
it.  Clarke,  if  I  could  only  learn  to  leave  a  thing  alone 
after  I  feel  that  I  have  what  I  want!  It  has  been  the 
curse  of  my  life,  this  changing  and  trying  to  carry  a  - 

192 


SUCCESS  AND  RECOGNITION 

thing  nearer  to  perfection.  After  all,  we  are  limited 
to  paint.  Maybe,  after  we  get  to  heaven,  we  shall 
find  some  other  medium  with  which  to  express  our 
thoughts  on  canvas.  I  had  this  picture  very  fine,  and 
then  I  knocked  it  all  to  pot.  It 's  the  one  our  friend 
bought.  He  was  in  here  this  morning,  and  we  had 
some  words  because  I  changed  it.  I  tell  you,  Clarke, 
I  shall  have  to  keep  these  fellows  out  of  here.  You 
had  better  take  the  pictures  to  your  rooms  and  let 
them  see  them  there,  for  if  you  don't,  I 'm  afraid  the 
canvases  never  will  be  done.  Sometimes  I  almost 
wish  I  had  another  trade.  But  I 'm  getting  it  now; 
this  is  going  to  be  the  greatest  thing  I  have  ever  done. 
Don't  you  see  how  brilliant  it  is?  The  thing  is  real. 
I  would  rather  starve  to  death  than  give  up  art." 

Mr.  Clarke,  who  had  come  into  the  studio  at  a  later 
stage  of  the  evolution  of  the  picture  than  had  his 
friend,  had  been  spared  the  shock  of  seeing  it  in  the 
discouraging  stage  of  transition  in  which,  unfortu- 
nately, the  gentleman  had  seen  it,  and  had  been  justly 
disappointed.  Through  that  marvelous  ability  which 
the  master  possessed  the  canvas  had  been  brought  back 
from  utter  failure  to  a  composition  even  more  beauti- 
ful than  the  original,  and  it  was  this  that  Clarke  saw 
and  pronounced  good. 

"It  is  a  wonderful  picture,  Inness,"  he  said,  "and 
that  fellow  is  mighty  lucky  to  own  it." 

195 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

"Own  it!"  snapped  my  father,  flaring  up  again  at 
the  thought  of  the  disagreeable  episode  with  his  pa- 
tron. "He  does  not  own  it,  and  he  cannot  own  it  now 
at  any  price.  I 'm  through  with  him,  and  I  don't 
want  him  to  come  here  and  bother  me  with  my  work." 

Clarke  did  not  press  the  point,  but  a  few  days  later 
succeeded  in  persuading  his  friend  to  forget  the 
little  unpleasantness  that  had  occurred,  and  go  with 
him  to  Inness's  studio.  When  they  arrived  my  father 
greeted  them  coldly.  The  picture  was  turned  face  to 
the  wall,  and  nothing  was  said  regarding  it.  Inness 
knew  that  the  picture  was  good  and  was  so  pleased 
with  it  that  he  wanted  above  everything  else  to  have 
them  ask  to  see  it,  only  his  pride  keeping  him  from 
bringing  it  out  and  saying,  "There,  that  is  the  great- 
est thing  I  ever  did."  An  abstract  subject  was  in- 
troduced, however,  on  art  in  general  which  struck  a 
responsive  chord,  and  after  a  few  moments  of  enthusi- 
asm in  explaining  some  theory  Inness  forgot  about  his 
grievance  and  became  himself  again.  Whereupon 
Clarke  suggested  that  he  show  them  the  picture  that 
their  friend  had  purchased. 

"He  has  purchased  no  picture,"  said  my  father, 
coldly,  "and  he  might  just  as  well  understand  now 
that  I  claim  the  right  to  paint  my  pictures  as  I  choose, 
and  the  fact  that  a  man  has  purchased  one  does  not  de- 

196 


SUCCESS  AND  RECOGNITION 

prive  me  of  the  right  to  make  any  changes  in  it  for  the 
better  that  I  like." 

A  little  smoothing  down  from  Clarke,  however,  had 
the  effect  of  oil  on  troubled  waters,  and  Inness 
inwardly  delighted,  brought  out  the  picture.  When 
the  patron  saw  it  he  was  amazed  at  its  beauty,  and  ex- 
claimed : 

"Mr.  Inness,  if  you  will  let  me  have  this  canvas  I 
will  accede  to  your  demands  and  allow  you  the  right 
to  change  your  pictures  whenever  you  wish." 

"All  right,"  laughed  my  father.  "Since  you  see  it 
in  its  proper  light,  I  will  deliver  the  canvas  to  you 
whenever  you  want  it." 

The  purchaser  said  he  would  send  for  it  and  left  the 
room,  to  return  in  about  five  minutes  with  a  man  he 
had  picked  up  on  the  street,  and  together  they  carried 
the  canvas  off  in  triumph. 

My  father  once  agreed  to  send  some  pictures  to  the 
Paris  Exposition,  and  later  changed  his  mind,  which 
brought  forth  some  rather  bitter  criticism  of  Mr. 
Clarke  for  having  influenced  him  against  it,  hinting 
at  personal  reasons  on  Clarke's  part.  The  pictures 
were  not  sent,  and  the  whole  affair  blew  over,  Clarke 
never  knowing  that  Inness  had  taken  any  notice  of 
it  one  way  or  the  other  until  the  following  letter  was 
discovered  in  an  auction  sale  a  few  years  ago. 

197 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

The  letter  was  addressed  to  the  editor  of  the  New 
York  "Herald,"  and  is  dated  March  9,  1889,  Mont- 
clair,  N.  J. 

Dear  Sir: 

In  your  paper  of  the  8th  inst.  certain  remarks  are  made 
concerning  Mr.  T.  B.  Clarke  in  which  my  name  is  mentioned. 

All  I  have  to  say  is  that  as  far  as  I  am  concerned  Mr. 
Clarke  has  in  no  way  influenced  my  action  in  this  matter  of 
exhibition.  I  have  had  friends  urging  me  to  exhibit  to  whose 
influence  I  did  give  way  so  far  as  to  commence  finishing  sev- 
eral important  works  which  had  been  lying  for  some  time  un- 
finished in  my  studio;  but  as  I  had  really  no  heart  in  the 
matter,  I  could  not  find  the  requisite  energy  to  do  myself 
justice.  Besides,  money  was  before  me  to  be  earned,  which 
I  did  not  feel  that  I  could  afford  to  lose. 

As  for  the  charge  of  the  want  of  patriotism,  I  care  about 
as  much  as  I  do  for  the  wind  of  the  wood. 

To  the  friends  who  have  supported  me  am  I  alone  respon- 
sible as  an  artist,  and  it  is  my  proper  business  in  this  rela- 
tion to  make  their  interest  one  with  my  own,  and  I  am  satis- 
fied that  my  interests  are  not  to  be  served  through  the  Art 
Commission. 

I  am  free  to  confess  that  I  am  greatly  indebted  to  Mr. 
Thomas  B.  Clarke  for  his  determined  faith  in  my  art,  and 
his  persistent  efforts  to  find  purchasers  for  my  works;  and 
if  art  is  of  use  and  my  reputation  sound,  then  is  T.  B.  Clarke 
deserving  of  gratitude  from  the  public,  and  not  of  con- 
tumely. 

What  Mr.  Clarke  has  done  for  me  through  the  extent  of 
my  ability  to  win  success  he  has  done  for  many  others 
through  the  extent  of  their  ability  to  win  success. 

My  art  is  not  in  its  nature  of  a  popular  character,  and 

198 


SUCCESS  AND  RECOGNITION 

had  it  not  been  for  the  generosity  of  Mr.  Roswell  Smith,  Mr. 
George  I.  Seney,  and  Mr.  B.  Altman,  together  with  the  per- 
sistent efforts  of  Mr.  Clarke,  I  should  probably  still  be  in 
the  drag. 

Yours  respectfully, 

George  Inness. 

To  the  editor  of 

The  New  York  "Herald." 

As  I  have  said  before,  the  development  and  unfold- 
ing of  my  father's  nature  in  the  latter  years  of  his  life 
were  not  limited  to  his  art,  and  his  activities  did  not 
confine  themselves  to  painting. 

It  was  at  this  period  of  his  life  that  he  did  most  of 
his  writing  and  research  work  along  spiritual  lines. 
In  1877  he  wrote  this  letter  to  my  sister,  Mrs.  Hart- 
ley, which  shows  the  trend  of  his  thought : 

New  York,  Feb.  13,  1877 

My  dear  Nellie: 

Although  I  have  neglected  to  write  to  you  as  soon  as  you 
might  have  expected  me  to,  the  answer  to  your  question  will 
probably  take  so  much  paper  that  I  will  leave  other  mat- 
ters and  commence  with  that. 

I  perceive  from  your  question  that  you  are  beginning  to 
think,  in  fact  that  your  spiritual  faculties  are  beginning  to 
unfold,  and  that  you  are  now  experiencing  your  first  tempta- 
tion, which  is  to  leave  the  ideas  in  which  you  have  been  edu- 
cated because  you  fear  that  they  may  disturb  you  in  the  en- 
joyment of  your  natural  desires. 

Every  individual  man  or  woman  born  into  this  world  is  an 
offshoot  of  that  Infinite  Mind  or  Spirit  which  we  call  God. 

199 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

God  creates  in  us  sensation,  and  through  it  we  are  made  con- 
scious of  the  world  we  live  in.  A  world  which  we  eventually 
find  to  be  a  continual  changing  state,  but  a  state  which 
forms  the  basis  of  all  our  knowledges.  This  state  is  con- 
tinually changing  because  our  spirits  individualized  here,  or 
born,  created  as  distinct  from  the  Infinite,  gradually  re- 
cede from  natural  surroundings  into  what  each  one  even- 
tually becomes,  viz.,  the  embodiment  of  his  or  her  own  love  or 
desires.  Now,  as  your  own  love  or  desire  eventually  be- 
comes the  center  from  which  all  your  activities  must  flow, 
it  behooves  you  to  see  that  your  love  or  what  you  desire  is 
rational  and  not  the  effect  of  a  mere  natural  impulse,  which 
may  be  one  thing  to-day  and  another  thing  to-morrow,  thus 
disturbing  the  orderly  centralizing  of  your  spirit  to  a  state 
of  happiness.  Now,  the  center  of  all  life  is  the  Lord  him- 
self, the  mystery  of  whose  existence  is  the  mystery  of  our 
own,  and  which  will  gradually  unfold  itself  to  us  as  we  learn 
to  subject  our  natural  impulses  to  ideas  of  use  and  make 
them  eventually  our  delight  and  the  consequent  center  of 
our  spirit  life,  which  then  becomes  one  with  the  Lord  Him- 
self. This  unfolding  of  intelligence  in  us  takes  place  in 
varying  degrees  to  eternity,  and  is  a  great  source  of  happi- 
ness or  of  unhappiness,  as  we  are  obedient  or  disobedient  to 
the  truth  which  we  know ;  for  this  truth  becomes  in  us  the 
voice  of  conscience,  "which  cannot  be  disobeyed  with  im- 
punity. Now,  what  the  spirit  sees  is  not  the  truth,  but  only 
an  appearance  of  truth.  For  instance,  we  say  the  sun  rises 
and  the  sun  sets,  but  this  is  not  true  except  as  an  appear- 
ance, and  so  it  is  with  every  fact  of  the  natural  world.  The 
truth  is  the  Lord  Himself,  Who  creates  and  controls  all 
which  is  thereby  made  to  appear  to  us.  This  truth  reveals 
itself  as  from  mind  to  mind,  and  is  from  the  beginning  one 
God,  whose  children  we  all  are.    God  first  reveals  Himself 

200 


SUCCESS  AND  RECOGNITION 

to  the  innocent  mind  as  command  which  it  is  impossible  to 
disobey  and  live.  Next  to  the  intellect  as  truth  that  it  may 
become  rational  or  act  in  the  order  of  use  which  is  the 
preservation  of  innocence.  Third  to  the  will  as  good  or  as 
a  power  conjoining  or  making  one  the  innocence  of  pure  af- 
fection and  the  operation  of  the  intellect  creating  in  His 
children  an  eternally  increasing  state  of  happiness.  Now, 
we  fall  from  innocence  when  we  indulge  the  senses  and  ac- 
cept their  evidence  as  truth  to  guide  us  to  happiness.  When 
the  truth  is  that  the  gratification  of  the  senses  becomes  more 
difficult  and  eventually  impossible  as  the  body  becomes  aged, 
and  that  those  spirits  who  indulge  them  and  are  led  by  their 
allurements  become  dull,  miserable,  and  wretched  for  the 
want  of  life — God.  Consequently  the  truth  is,  thou  shalt 
love  the  Lord.  This  is  the  command  which  innocence  ac- 
cepts as  its  guide  and  its  savior,  and  it  becomes  its  protection 
against  the  allurements  of  the  senses. 

Now,  the  Bible  is  the  word  of  God  or  the  truth  of  life  in 
its  intellectual  form,  and  by  obedience  to  its  commands  we 
become  recipients  of  life  itself  as  an  inflowing  principle  of 
goodness  uniting  all  our  thoughts  to  innocent  desires, 
thereby  creating  in  us  a  love  of  the  highest  and  most  beau- 
tiful uses,  which  is  to  extend  the  Lord's  love,  which  is  har- 
mony itself,  throughout  the  world  we  live  in.  Thus  we  be- 
come spheres  of  what  we  are  of  innocence,  truth,  and  good- 
ness, seen  by  angels  as  spheres  of  the  love  and  wisdom  of 
God.  If  you  would  have  this  life,  read  the  Word  and  obey 
the  commandments.  If  you  find  yourself  at  fault,  look  to 
the  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  Who  is  the  only  example  of  this 
sphere  of  innocence,  and  Who  is  therefore  within  it  and 
forms  it.  He  will  communicate  to  you  the  power  to  deny 
the  allurements  of  sense  or  your  outer  self  and  attain  to  the 
love  of  duty  which  is  the  road  to  heaven  or  the  happiness  of 

201 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

the  inner  life.  This  life  is  the  eternal  future  ever  present  to 
all  who  love  the  Lord  more  than  self.  That  is  a  life  within 
the  commandments  rather  than  a  life  outside  of  or  without 
them. 

That  you  may  be  obedient  to  the  law  of  life,  and  thereby 
enter  into  the  enjoyment  of  it,  is  the  sincere  wish  of  your 
affectionate  father. 

I  have  known  him  to  stay  in  bed  as  long  as  two  or 
three  days  at  a  time,  writing  and  thinking,  and  in  an- 
swer to  my  solicitations  in  regard  to  his  health  he 
would  reply: 

"Oh,  no,  not  ill;  only  resting  and  having  a  good 
time.  Don't  have  to  dress,  and  I  believe  your  mother 
has  a  new  suit  for  me." 

Pop  hated  new  clothes,  as  he  hated  the  barber  and 
the  dentist,  and  mother,  who  had  given  his  measure  to 
the  tailor,  would  order  three  or  four  suits  at  a  time, 
and  when  she  thought  necessary,  would  remove  the 
old  ones  after  Pop  had  retired  and  put  new  ones  in 
their  place.  But  try  as  she  might,  Pop  was  ex- 
tremely careless.  He  never  knew  or  cared  what  he 
looked  like. 

When  he  was  at  the  zenith  of  his  career,  with  an  in- 
come of  perhaps  twenty  thousand  dollars  a  year  or 
more,  a  fortune  in  those  days,  he  was  walking  one 
cold  winter  morning  down  Broadway.  He  was  clad 
in  an  old  gray  ulster.  I  am  sure  the  buttons  were 
on,  for  mother  always  looked  to  his  grooming  before 

202 


SUCCESS  AND  RECOGNITION 

she  let  him  out  of  the  house;  however,  on  this  occa- 
sion the  buttonhole  on  the  skirt  of  the  ulster  was 
holding  the  button  at  the  throat.  It  was  cold,  and 
father  was  crouched  down  in  his  collar.  He  was  bent 
over,  as  he  was  very  round-shouldered,  when  a  man 
accosted  him,  and  in  a  kindly  voice  said: 

"My  man,  would  you  like  to  earn  a  quarter  of  a 
dollar?" 

Father,  who  always  appreciated  a  joke,  even 
though  the  shaft  were  aimed  at  himself,  replied: 

"Yes;  I  should  like  to  earn  a  quarter  of  a  dollar." 

"Well,"  said  the  man,  "I 'm  a  photographer,  and  I 
see  that  you  have  a  very  remarkable  head.  If  you 
will  come  to  my  studio  and  let  me  take  some  pictures 
of  you,  I  will  give  you  twenty-five  cents." 

"No,"  replied  Pop,  "I  don't  think  I  will  go.  You 
photographers  generally  have  your  shops  at  the  top 
of  the  house,  and  I  am  pretty  short  of  wind." 

"It 's  only  four  flights  up,"  urged  the  photogra- 
pher, "and  it 's  just  around  the  corner.  We  will  take 
it  as  slowly  as  you  wish." 

So  father  agreed,  and  followed  his  new-found  bene- 
factor to  the  top  of  the  building.  He  was  then 
placed  in  a  chair,  and  the  clamps  adjusted  behind  his 
head.  The  photographer  took  several  shots,  and  then 
said: 

"Thank  you  very  much.    Here  is  your  money. 

205 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

Now  let  me  give  you  a  word  of  advice.  You  can  do 
better  than  you  are  now  doing.  As  I  have  remarked, 
you  have  a  very  remarkable  head,  and  if  you  will  go 
among  the  artists,  there  is  a  studio  building  on  Tenth 
Street,  and  knock  on  any  door.  I 'm  pretty  sure 
you  can  do  better  for  yourself  than  you  are  now  do- 
ing." 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  my  father.  "I 
don't  like  artists ;  I 've  had  experience  with  them  be- 
fore." 

"Oh,  so  you  are  a  model,  then?" 
"No,  I 'm  not  a  model,  but  I 've  used  models." 
"That 's  interesting.    Then  you  are  an  artist?" 
"Well,  I  suppose  so.    I  don't  know  that  I  can  lay 
claim  to  the  title  of  artist,  but  I  paint  for  a  living." 
"Why,  that 's  very  interesting.    Do  you  exhibit?" 
"Yes,  oh,  yes,  I  exhibit." 

"And,"  continued  the  photographer,  "may  I  ask 
where?" 

"Anywhere  that  I  can  get  the  chance;  The 
Academy  of  Design,  Chicago,  Philadelphia,  London, 
Paris,  and  different  towns ;  in  fact,  anywhere  where  I 
think  I  might  be  able  to  sell  a  picture." 

"Why,"  said  the  photographer,  condescendingly, 
"I  know  all  the  artists;  but  I  surely  don't  know  you. 
Who  are  you?    What  is  your  name?" 

"My  name  is  Inness." 

206 


SUCCESS  AND  RECOGNITION 

"Not  George  Inness?" 
"That 's  my  name." 

"George  Inness,  the  landscape-painter — Inness?" 

"Well,"  replied  my  father,  "that 's  my  name,  and  I 
paint  landscapes." 

"My  dear  sir,  come  into  this  room  a  moment."  And 
as  they  entered,  the  photographer  pointed  to  a  small 
canvas  on  the  wall,  among  many  others.  "Who 
painted  this  picture?"  he  asked. 

"I  did,"  was  Pop's  reply. 

Then  he  grasped  my  father  by  the  hand  and  said: 

"Mr.  Inness,  I  have  long  wanted  to  meet  you. 
There 's  no  man  in  your  profession  that  I  admire  so 
much.  And  say,  Mr.  Inness,  give  me  back  that 
twenty-five  cents." 

"Never,"  chuckled  my  father;  "but  if  you  will  come 
downstairs,  I  '11  blow  you  to  a  drink."  At  this 
time  my  father  also  had  a  studio  on  Fifty-fifth 
Street,  New  York,  where  things  were  very  lively. 
Pictures  were  being  sold  at  a  rapid  rate,  and  art  in 
general  under  his  pioneering  had  received  a  tre- 
mendous impetus.  The  younger  men  were  return- 
ing from  abroad.  New  ideas  and  new  men  had 
sprung  up  around  him,  and  there  were  plenty  of  fel- 
low-artists for  Pop  to  worry  and  delight. 

We  had  great  difficulty  in  making  my  father  sign 
his  pictures.    He  was  greatly  opposed  to  it,  saying 

207 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

that  a  work  of  art  was  a  work  of  art,  no  matter  who 
signed  it,  or  if  it  were  not  signed  at  all. 

There  are  many  spurious  Innesses  on  the  market 
to-day.  Every  year  I  am  shown  canvases  which  are 
"known  to  be"  Innesses  that  my  father  never  saw. 

A  man  once  came  to  me  with  a  small  canvas  and 
declared  that  he  had  an  Inness,  that  there  was  abso- 
lutely no  question  as  to  its  authenticity  and  that  he 
considered  it  one  of  George  Inness's  masterpieces. 

I  examined  the  canvas  carefully,  and  turning 
to  the  gentleman,  said:  "You  are  possibly  aware  that 
my  father  believed  in  the  doctrines  of  Emanuel  Swe- 
denborg,  which  teach  that  when  we  leave  this  earthly 
life  we  enter  a  spiritual  life  which  enables  us  to  con- 
tinue the  same  pursuits  that  we  have  followed  upon 
this  earth,  only  in  a  higher  and  more  exalted  state. 
This  doctrine  my  father  taught  me,  and  I  believed  it, 
but  am  rather  skeptical  now,  for  this  picture  which 
must  have  been  painted  in  the  spirit  world  is  decidedly 
inferior  to  the  work  my  father  did  on  earth." 

"Why,  what  do  you  mean?"  he  questioned  eagerly. 

"Just  take  a  look  at  the  signature  and  date,  and 
you  will  see  that  it  was  painted  in  1896.  Now,  as 
George  Inness  died  in  '94,  it  must  have  been  painted 
in  the  spirit  world,  and  is  certainly  not  worthy  of 
the  master." 


208 


CHAPTER  XI 


THE  PASSING  OF  GEORGE  INNESS 

IN  1894  my  father's  health  began  to  break,  and 
his  physicians  recommended  a  trip  abroad.  He 
and  my  mother  sailed  to  Scotland  and  went  to 
the  little  town  of  the  Bridge-of- Allan,  where  for  a 
time  his  health  seemed  to  improve  and  to  regain  its 
usual  vigor. 

Late  on  the  afternoon  of  August  3  he  suggested 
to  my  mother  that  they  take  a  drive,  and  that  while 
she  was  dressing  he  would  stroll  about  and  look  at 
the  sunset.  He  went  out  to  a  point  where  he  could 
best  see  the  flaming  sky,  which  was  unusually  beau- 
tiful that  evening.  A  sunset  had  always  moved  him 
to  the  deepest  emotions,  and  as  he  gazed  he  was  filled 
with  an  ecstasy  too  profound,  a  pain  too  exquisite,  for 
the  frail  earthly  body.  Just  as  the  big  red  ball  went 
down  below  the  horizon  he  threw  his  hands  into  the 
air  and  exclaimed,  "My  God!  oh,  how  beautiful!"  and 
fell  stricken  to  the  ground. 

A  lad  who  was  standing  near  by  rushed  to  him 
and  said: 

"Are  ye  in  liquor,  mon?" 

209 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

"No/'  gasped  my  father;  "I  am  dying.  Take  me 
up-stairs  to  my  wife."  In  a  few  moments  he  passed 
away  in  the  arms  of  the  woman  he  loved  better  than 
any  one  else  in  the  world,  and  on  to  those  realms  of 
transcendent  beauty  of  which  he  had  dreamed,  where 
sunsets  are  painted  without  paint. 

When  my  father's  body  was  brought  back  from 
Scotland  it  was  placed  in  state  in  the  Academy  of 
Design,  and  the  funeral  was  held  in  those  rooms,  an 
honor  bestowed  on  only  a  few  of  the  elect.  It  is  true 
that  in  life  the  academy  was  slow  to  acknowledge 
George  Inness,  fifteen  years  elapsing  between  his 
election  as  Associate  and  his  election  as  full  Aca- 
demician, the  latter  occurring  in  1868.  But  when 
he  was  recognized,  it  was  with  full  and  complete  rec- 
ognition. 

As  I  read  over  the  press-notices  of  my  father's  fun- 
eral, and  review  the  hundreds  of  clippings  cut  from 
every  paper  in  the  country,  for  even  the  small  and 
unknown  papers  wrote  of  his  death,  and  in  the  larger 
cities  extra  papers  were  sold  on  the  streets  telling  of 
the  death  of  the  great  American  painter  and  mourn- 
ing his  loss,  I  feel  that  I  must  quote  directly  from 
them. 

On  August  24,  1894,  the  New  York  "Times"  pub- 
lished the  following  article : 

Inness,  to  whom  a  Hellenic  people  would  have  raised 

210 


THE  PASSING  OF  GEORGE  INNESS 


statues,  received  yesterday  the  most  delicately  impressive 
homage  that  the  modern  world  can  pay. 

He  had  been  great  enough  to  deserve  the  name  of  artist, 
which  is  grander  than  everything,  and  the  members  of  the 
Academy  of  Design,  their  friends  and  the  representatives  of 
the  larger  class,  who,  hopeless  of  emulating  him,  at  least 
tried  to  understand  his  work,  were  united  in  the  services  held 
in  the  rooms,  where  his  personality  had,  for  a  quarter  of  a 
century,  expressed  its  admirable  distinction  in  imperishable 
paintings. 

Strength  and  implacable  serenity  had  been  easily  read 
in  life  in  the  expression  of  his  face,  vigorously  modeled, 
and  the  eye  of  which  were  profound  and  mystic,  while  the 
forehead,  pure  as  the  entablature  of  a  Greek  temple,  was 
radiant  with  interior  light. 

Yet  he  had  known  the  envy  of  rivals,  the  hatred  of  fools, 
cold  indifference,  the  suffering  of  those  he  loved,  atrociously 
mingled  with  fever  of  creative  fervor,  and  all  the  misfor- 
tunes, accidents,  ridiculous  annoyances  and  crimes  of  fate 
allied  in  perpetual  vexation  against  the  genius  of  man. 

In  the  artistic  circle  of  which  his  mortal  envelope  was  the 
center  yesterday,  Inness's  long  baptism  of  labor  and  pain 
could  not  be  realized.  There  were  impulsive  thoughts  only 
of  the  morning  landscapes,  tender,  vaporous,  ideal,  where 
leaves  imperceptibly  tremble  in  a  soft  undecided  light  and 
enchanting  visions  in  the  foliage  furtively  glance  at  dark 
fountains  faintly  whitening;  of  evening  landscapes,  inflamed 
from  skies  where  walls  and  citadels  crumble  into  melting 
gold ;  of  heights  that  Seraphita  climbed,  and  of  all  the  rhap- 
sodies of  epic  poems  which  Inness  impressed  for  Americans  in 
accurate  records  of  their  country's  widely  magnificent  nat- 
ural scenery. 

Phidias  himself,  who  knew  the  secrets  of  his  art,  could  not 

211 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

have  sculptured  the  figure  of  an  imitator,  and  to  make  a 
camp  follower  none  could  think  of  the  immortal  Indra  on 
his  chariot,  drawn  by  horses  of  azure,  or  of  Zeus,  Clarious  or 
Tegeus,  at  once  god  of  ether  and  god  of  light.  None  could 
think  yesterday  of  Inness  at  any  period  of  his  career  van- 
quished or  feeble,  since  he  is  splendidly  triumphant  in  his 
art,  and  doubtless  already  perceives  with  new  senses,  as  he 
expected  in  his  Swedenborgian  confidence,  the  peaceful  glory 
of  beauty  and  the  silent  music  of  the  stars.  He  was  the 
very  reverse  of  an  imitator,  and  his  long  years  of  suffering 
in  the  most  hideous  of  mundane  circles,  the  one  where  great 
works  are  received  in  mute  unconcern,  were  his  penalty 
for  being  one  of  the  greatest  artists.  None  could  think 
yesterday  that  there  was  humiliation  for  the  public  in  the 
fact  that  wealth  had  not  flown  into  Inness's  studio  at  once, 
as  he  deserved,  like  metal  in  the  streets  after  the  burning  of 
Corinth.  But  the  reflection  comes  inevitably  now  and 
makes  more  dreadful  than  chance  of  error  in  over-apprecia- 
tion, the  fault  of  not  recognizing  genius  at  its  first  appear- 
ance. 

The  ceremony  at  the  Academy  of  Design  was  simpler  than 
any  impression  which  its  relation  may  convey.  Inness  dis- 
dained glory  even  more  than  money.  He  has  obtained  glory 
more  solid,  more  durable  and  more  universal  than  many 
great  men  of  his  time.  But  he  never  courted  it  or  made 
the  slightest  sacrifices  in  its  favor.  Without  hoping  for 
success,  he  tried  to  satisfy  his  refined  instinct  for  the  beau- 
tiful. He  asked  of  color  to  express  the  soul,  the  thought, 
the  mysterious  attitude  of  the  intimate  being  which  is  in 
nature,  and  he  succeeded  by  force  of  passionate  endeavor. 
Pompousness  did  not  illuminate  his  life  and  would  not  have 
fitted  his  obsequies. 

The  casket  of  silver  and  velvet  was  covered  with  palm 

212 


THE  PASSING  OF  GEORGE  INNESS 

leaves  and  wreaths  of  white  roses,  ivy  and  lilies  of  the 
valley.  The  ribbons  were  violet.  On  a  pedestal  the  fine 
bronze  bust  of  Inness  by  Hartley  stood  at  the  foot  of  the 
casket,  and  its  eyes  had  a  life-like  glance.  The  paintings 
shone  in  their  usual  places  on  the  walls,  in  all  their  gaiety. 
Only  the  balustrade  at  the  stairs  was  draped  in  black.  The 
flag  was  flying  at  half  mast.  The  air  in  the  room  had  the 
perfume  of  flowers,  not  of  incense,  and  the  minister,  solemn 
but  not  grave,  spoke  in  pleasantly  modulated  tones  of  irre- 
pressible conviction.  He  stood  in  the  arch  separating  the 
council  room  from  the  long  reception  room,  in  front  of  the 
casket  that  tall  palmetto  leaves  covered.  Without  a  gesture, 
his  head  a  little  inclined,  he  told  the  interpretations  of  the 
Arcana  Coelestia,  the  state  of  death  which  is  changed  to  a 
higher  life,  the  eternal  humanity  of  the  Father,  the  neces- 
sity of  works  for  salvation,  that  faith  alone  may  not  pro- 
cure, and  the  state  of  the  spiritual  world,  which  has  the  same 
relation  to  the  natural  world  as  the  soul  to  the  body.  Those 
who  knew  Inness  knew  how  impatient  of  contradiction  he 
was  in  his  religious  faith.  He  talked  for  hours  of  the 
Swedish  philosopher. 

Neither  by  geometrical  nor  physical  nor  metaphysical 
principles  had  Swedenborg  succeeded  in  reaching  and 
grasping  the  infinite  and  the  spiritual,  or  in  elucidating  their 
relation  to  man  and  man's  organism,  though  he  had  caught 
glimpses  of  facts  and  method  which  he  thought  only  lacked 
confirmation  and  development.  He  was  a  man  who  won 
respect,  confidence  and  love  of  all  who  came  in  contact  with 
him.  Though  people  might  disbelieve  in  his  visions,  they 
feared  to  ridicule  them  in  his  presence. 

His  theosophic  system  was  founded  on  the  point  of  view 
that  God  must  be  regarded  as  the  divine  man.  His  essence 
is  infinite  love.    His  manifestation,  form  or  body  is  infinite 

215 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

wisdom.  "Divine  love  is  the  self-subsisting  life  of  the  uni- 
verse," Inness  quoted.  From  God  emanates  a  divine  sphere 
which  appears  in  the  spiritual  world  as  a  sun,  and  from  the 
spiritual  sun  again  proceeds  the  sun  of  the  natural  world. 
.  .  .  In  God  there  are  three  infinite  and  uncreated  degrees  of 
being,  and  in  many  and  all  things  corresponding  three  de- 
grees, finite  and  created.  They  are  love,  wisdom,  use;  or 
end,  cause  and  effect.  The  final  ends  of  all  things  are  in 
the  Divine  mind,  the  causes  of  all  things  in  the  spiritual 
world,  and  their  effects  in  the  natural  world.  .  .  ." 

The  minister's  eloquence  had  tenderness,  not  enthusiasm, 
and  it  came  to  an  end  in  a  prayer  and  benediction  of  gentle, 
crystal  clearness. 

There  was  an  artistic  inclination  in  his  well  made  phrases 
when  he  spoke  of  Inness's  conception  of  nature  as  all  sym- 
bolical, and  of  his  art  to  reproduce  this,  not  in  the  crude 
forms  of  outward  expression  that  the  common  mind  may 
easily  grasp,  but  in  spiritual  suggestions. 

An  artist  might  not  have  expressed  better  a  sense  of  the 
aristocracy  of  art,  the  exaltation  of  the  best  in  every- 
thing which  it  signifies  and  the  religious  inspiration  which  it 
demands,  since  genius  is  not  logical,  has  only  perception, 
and  attains  its  highest  flight  in  pure  ecstasy.  The  senti- 
ment sent  a  thrill  of  appreciation  in  the  audience  of  artists 
that  nothing  more  sensually  expressive  might  have  produced. 

They  sat  on  sofas,  chairs  and  benches  of  the  reception 
room  and  formed  a  compact  crowd,  prolonged  into  a  tall 
black  mass,  in  the  vestibule.  They  sat  around  members  of 
the  family  in  the  council  room,  bright  as  the  cool  sacristies 
of  the  ancient  monasteries. 

The  light  that  came  through  the  small  colored  window- 
panes  made  the  scene  resplendent  with  an  undefinable  grace. 
There  was  not  an  unimpressed  person  among  the  painters, 

216 


THE  PASSING  OF  GEORGE  INNESS 

poets  and  sculptors  there,  to  whom  art  itself  is  a  religion  in- 
tolerant and  jealous.  There  were  only  thoughts,  minds  and 
conceptions  heartily  united  in  Inness's  vision  of  the  ladder  of 
men  and  angels,  the  highest  line  of  which  disappears  in 
pure  sidereal  light,  and  in  their  own  vision  of  long  lines  of 
artists  in  the  front  rank  of  which  stands  Inness. 

The  sermon  and  eulogy  of  the  Rev.  Dr.  J.  C.  Ager  were 
listened  to  with  the  deepest  attention.  He  was  for  many 
years  the  personal,  close  and  intimate  friend  of  George  In- 
ness, and  stood  closer  to  him  than  any  other  man.  A  man 
of  artistic  instinct,  there  was  always  a  bond  of  the  closest 
sympathy  and  interest  between  Pastor  Ager  and  Painter 
Inness.  This  much  the  audience,  especially  the  artists, 
knew,  and  the  eulogy,  coming  from  such  a  source,  possessed 
a  peculiar  significance  and  interest  for  the  hearers. 

The  Rev.  Dr.  Ager  prefaced  his  personal  remarks  by  a 
series  of  running  quotations  from  the  Bible  to  point  and 
enforce  the  Swedenborgian  doctrine  of  the  hereafter. 

"This  that  we  call  death,"  said  he,  "is  not  death.  It  is 
but  the  entrance  to  another  state.  Here  in  this  life,  on 
this  world,  we  develop  only  the  primary  faculties  of  life. 
This  is  our  initial  stage.  Here  we  begin  to  open  our  facul- 
ties. Here  on  this  earth  we  have  the  opportunity  to  make 
a  complete  choice  between  good  and  evil.  Death  sets  us 
free  from  the  conditions  of  this  life  and  sends  us  into  the 
future  life,  which  lies  alongside  this.  There  we  will  be  no 
more  subject  to  the  laws  of  space  and  time."  The  minis- 
ter closed  his  Bible. 

"This  was  in  substance,"  he  continued,  looking  upward 
with  folded  arms,  "the  religious  faith  of  this  brother,  who 
has  passed  on  into  the  higher  life.  If  his  voice  could  be 
now  heard  he  would  emphasize  the  doctrines  which  I  have 
stated. 

217 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

"It  is  hardly  possible  for  me  to  deal  with  the  professional 
character  and  position  of  George  Inness.  I  believe,  with 
many  artists,  that  his  fame  will  be  a  lasting  one,  and  has  not 
yet  by  any  means  reached  its  limit.  It  was  my  lot  to  know 
him  at  the  somewhat  critical  point  of  his  life  when  he  was 
drifting  away  from  every  definite  belief,  and  had  just  begun 
to  find  in  the  writings  of  Swedenborg  a  solution  of  his  diffi- 
culties. 

"Those  of  you  who  knew  George  Inness  knew  how  in- 
tense a  man  he  was.  That  word  'intense'  perhaps  better 
describes  him  than  any  word  in  the  language.  He  was  an 
intense  man.  He  was  a  genuine  man.  He  was  a  true  genius. 
He  had  little  sympathy  with  those  who  did  not  share  his 
beliefs.  Perhaps  I  should  not  say  sympathy,  but  certainly 
no  sense  of  companionship.  To  many,  I  know,  he  seemed 
ungenial,  cold.  But  those  who  knew  him  well  understand 
the  reason  for  this  opinion  of  him. 

"His  opinions,  beliefs,  convictions  were  everything  to  him. 
If  he  had  a  conviction,  that  conviction  was  the  truth,  sim- 
ply because  he  saw  it,  and  not  because  he  arrived  at  a  con- 
viction by  any  cold  and  formal  process  of  reasoning  or  logic. 
This  intuitive  perception  of  truth  is  the  characteristic  of 
genius.  That  is  the  way  George  Inness  reached  his  con- 
clusions. In  Swedenborg  George  Inness  found  the  basis 
for  his  theory  of  art.  He  found  there  the  true  solution  for 
all  the  problems  of  expression.  To  him  all  nature  was 
symbolic — full  of  spiritual  meaning.  He  prized  nothing  in 
nature  that  did  not  stand  for  something.  That  was  the 
secret  of  his  theory  of  art.  He  cared  for  no  picture  that 
did  not  tell  a  story ;  not  necessarily  to  common  minds  by  this 
kind  of  symbolism,  but  telling  a  story  to  the  feelings  which 
it  suggested,  and  to  the  thought  to  which  it  gave  expression. 

"This  philosophy  of  art,  as  some  of  you  know,  was  im- 

218 


THE  PASSING  OF  GEORGE  INNESS 

measurably  dear  to  George  Inness.  Out  of  it  all  his  pic- 
tures sprang.  He  was  as  genuine  in  his  own  life  as  he  was 
in  everything  else.  In  religion  he  was  as  intense  as  he 
was  in  art,  and  as  dogmatic.  But  with  all  of  his  intensity 
of  feeling  and  purpose  he  had  the  gentleness  of  a  woman. 

"We  do  not  know  what  the  rest  of  the  world  will  think 
of  George  Inness,  now  that  he  has  gone,  but  we  who  knew 
him  know  that  that  other  life  into  which  he  has  gone  will 
not  be  to  him  one  of  inactivity.  All  his  powers  will  find  there 
a  more  active  development.  You  who  knew  him  know  that 
he  was  sometimes  impatient  of  his  own  limitations.  Often 
he  was  lost  in  fits  of  despondency  because  of  what  he  con- 
sidered to  be  his  lack  of  success.  In  the  life  to  which  he 
has  gone  there  will  be  no  limitations  of  his  genius." 

In  the  absence  of  Thomas  W.  Wood,  the  president  of 
the  National  Academy  of  Design,  who  is  in  Europe,  the 
memorial  services  were  presided  over  by  H.  W.  Robbins,  the 
vice-president.  Notwithstanding  the  short  notice  which 
was  given  of  the  service  and  despite  the  fact  that  this  is 
the  season  when  artists  are  scattered  over  almost  the  whole 
globe,  gathering  material  for  their  canvases,  there  was  a 
large  attendance  at  the  services.  Some  of  those  who  were 
there  traveled  many  miles  to  the  city  to  pay  their  last 
tribute  of  love  and  esteem  to  the  memory  of  the  great  Amer- 
ican painter. 

The  winter  following  the  death  of  George  Inness 
a  memorial  exhibition  was  held  in  New  York,  of 
which  the  following  gives  an  account: 

"The  galleries  of  the  American  Fine  Arts  Society  were 
well  filled  last  evening  when  the  first  view  of  the  collection 
of  paintings  by  the  late  George  Inness  was  given.  The 

219 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

paintings  were  hung  in  the  three  large  rooms.  An  orchestra 
furnished  music  from  eight  o'clock  until  nine,  when  Parke 
Godwin  made  an  address. 

Mr.  Godwin  spoke  in  the  north  gallery  to  four  or  five 
hundred  people.  His  address  was  mainly  eulogistic  of 
Mr.  Inness,  and  although  he  talked  for  three  quarters  of 
an  hour,  the  interest  of  his  listeners  never  flagged.  Mr. 
Godwin  was  frequently  applauded  when  he  made  very  elo- 
quent tributes  to  the  genius  of  the  great  painter.  He  told 
of  the  many  adversities  Mr.  Inness  had  been  subjected  to, 
and  compared  him  to  other  great  painters  who  had  tri- 
umphed over  hardship  early  in  their  careers. 

"But  adversities  are  not  always  hindrances,"  said  Mr. 
Godwin.  "Let  us  look  for  an  instant  at  the  flowers  of  the 
field — the  yellow  violet  and  the  lily,  which  are  nurtured 
among  innumerable  difficulties,  and  yet  are  among  the  fairest 
of  flowers.  The  English  primrose  is  an  example.  It  is  the 
most  delicate,  and  yet  perhaps  frailly  beautiful,  of  all 
flowers,  and  yet,  as  the  poet  says,  it  is 

"Nursed  in  the  whirling  storms, 
And  cradled  in  the  winds." 

Then  he  referred  to  the  hardships  and  triumphs  of  Turner, 
Keats  and  Burns.  "Inness,"  Mr.  Godwin  said,  "was  met 
at  the  beginning  of  his  career  by  a  dire  want  of  educational 
opportunities  and  also  by  want  of  an  audience.  At  the 
outset  he  was  hindered,  for  art  received  no  recognition  or 
encouragement  in  this  country  at  that  time.  When  I  came 
here  sixty  years  ago  there  were  only  two  academies  of  de- 
sign in  the  country ;  one  here  and  one  in  Philadelphia. 
There  were  no  students  leagues  or  other  art  societies.  You 
scarcely  know  the  public's  indifference  to  the  fine  arts  in 
those  times.    What  Inness  received  to  aid  him  in  his  life 

220 


THE  PASSING  OF  GEORGE  INNESS 

profession  he  received  only  in  the  studio  of  a  genial  French- 
man.   Inness  had  to  work  his  way  against  the  greatest  odds. 

"In  his  early  days  artists  in  this  country  said  that  his 
familiarity  with  foreign  painters  would  injure  his  original- 
ity and  detract  somewhat  from  the  freshness  of  a  purely 
American  painter.  They  might  as  well  have  said  that  a 
man  of  letters  should  not  read  books." 

The  speaker  went  on  to  compare  George  Inness  to  for- 
eign painters,  showing  that  although  possibly  he  had  been 
influenced  slightly  by  the  styles  of  many  of  them,  he  stood 
alone  and  original.  Mr.  Godwin  spoke  of  the  likeness  of 
Inness's  foliage  to  that  of  certain  French  painters  and  com- 
pared his  manner  of  depicting  woodlands  to  that  of  Rous- 
seau.   In  closing  Mr.  Godwin  said: 

"You  could  take  two  or  three  of  the  pictures  from  these 
walls,  show  them  to  any  expert  critic,  asking  him  by  whom 
they  were  painted,  and  be  sure  of  his  answer.  They  would 
be  known  from  among  hundreds.  No  one  but  George  Inness 
could  have  painted  them. 

"Joshua  Reynolds,  when  complimented  on  one  of  his  fam- 
ous paintings,  said,  'there  are  eight  or  ten  pictures  on 
that  one  canvas.'  And  yet  I  am  told  that  one  of  the  sheets 
of  canvas  in  this  gallery  contains  twenty-six  pictures.  The 
secret  of  .George  Inness's  success  was  that  he  was  never  sat- 
isfied. He  ever  strove  for  something  that  was  above,  be- 
yond and  better." 

In  the  description  of  "Florida  Morning,"  which 
appeared  in  the  Boston  "Transcript,"  on  March  19, 
1897,  Mr.  Walter  Church  describes  most  admirably 
the  real  Inness  through  the  description  of  one  of  his 
pictures.  The  article  is  entitled  "George  Inness,  the 
color  poet."    He  said : 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

To  some  art  lovers  the  most  attractive  picture  in  the 
Jordan  gallery  is  the  "Florida  Morning"  of  George  Inness. 
He  was  America's  greatest  landscape  painter — a  student 
worker  whose  native  sweetness  was  not  spoiled  by  any 
school.  He  was  great  enough  to  choose  the  good  wherever 
found  and  yet  remain  true  to  himself,  because  he  himself 
was  true. 

He  was  as  tender  as  Corot,  as  sincere  as  Rousseau.  Du- 
pre  was  not  more  intense,  nor  Diaz  more  expansive.  One  of 
his  best  lovers  said,  "Inness  finds  the  Garden  of  Eden  every- 
where."  Sometimes  he  was  so  enthused  by  the  spiritual  that 
he  seemed  careless  of  externals,  at  least  to  those  who  dwell 
in  the  external.  Inness  was  inspired  by  the  chivalry  of 
art;  the  genial  soul  hospitality  that  cherished  frank  com- 
radeship with  all  good,  and  by  the  very  force  of  his  ex- 
ample "He  drove  the  money  changers  from  the  temple." 
Though  it  is  said  of  his  pictures  that  the  last  one  you  see 
always  seems  the  best,  yet  his  "Florida  Morning"  has  a 
peculiar  interest  that  no  other  picture  can  ever  have.  It 
was  his  last  picture — painted  in  1894 — not  long  before 
he  went  away  to  foreign  lands,  and  then  passed  on  to  that 
higher  life,  for  which  he  was  fitted  by  the  patient,  loving, 
trusting  work  of  his  life  with  us  here.  It  was  the  fare- 
well color-song  of  that  mystic  swan,  whose  coming  brought 
blessing,  and  whose  going  away  left  no  successor. 

Inness  was  ahead  of  his  age  in  translating  the  "cabala" 
of  nature — and  it  is  not  strange  that  the  keynote  of  his 
last  picture  was  unique  interpretation  of  divine  motherhood. 

A  mother  follows  her  little  child,  whose  outstretched  arms 
and  slanting  form  tell  of  her  eager  joy  at  the  first  sight  of 
home.  They  have  just  come  up  out  of  the  sinking  shad- 
ows into  the  glory  of  the  morning,  and  high  on  the  tree-boles 
the  sunlight  has  blazed  the  pathway  to  their  journey's  happy 


THE  PASSING  OF  GEORGE  INNESS 


end.  The  atmosphere  is  full  of  veiled  visions  of  something 
sweet  to  come.  It  is  the  temperate  zone  flowering  in  the 
tropics.  You  recognize  the  beautiful  place  and  yet  you  can- 
not remember  where  you  ever  saw  it.  The  growing  grasses 
nod  to  you,  and  you  know  they  would  "natter  your  feet." 
Unseen  orange  blossoms  throw  you  kisses  of  welcome. 
The  trees  are  familiar  friends  and  woo  you  to  their 
inner  temples,  where  they  know  you  delight  to  go.  The 
skies  sympathize  with  you,  and  overshadowed  by  the  divine 
spirit,  promise  you  the  rain  that  saves.  You  feel  that 
the  soul  who  evoked  this  vision  was  not  content  with  the 
Ararat  found  after  many  days,  and  sought  Zion,  not  in  rest 
but  in  helpful  work,  while  echoing  the  songs  that  Mother 
Nature  sang.  It  is  a  painting  full  of  pictures,  all  of  which 
make  melody.  Strike  your  deepest  chord  on  the  piano,  hold 
the  keys  and  listen.  Those  three  tones — the  holy  trinity 
of  sound — multiply  into  a  weird  orchestral  anthem  which 
leads  your  soul  among  new  delights.  So  it  is  with  this  matin, 
"Gloria  in  Excelsis."  It  is  a  picture  to  live  with,  for  it  will 
chord  with  every  living  mood,  echo  all  beautiful  thoughts 
and  endow  you  with  a  wealth  of  its  own.  Are  you  busy? 
Glance  at  its  flowers,  and  know  that  the  bees  are  working 
with  you.  Would  you  dream?  The  unseen  hammock  under 
that  tree  awaits  you,  and  the  flower-blessed  air  is  full  of 
unseen  shapes  of  beauty.  Do  you  weep?  Those  clouds  are 
ready  to  weep  with  you  and  soften  your  grief  into  joy. 
Could  you  sing?  Then  join  the  wordless  song  in  your  soul 
to  the  ever  varying  overture  of  those  colors.  But  when 
you  would  pray,  you  need  only  to  read  what  Inness  has 
written  there  and  say,  Amen. 


225 


CHAPTER  XII 


THE  ART  OF  GEORGE  INNESS 

IN  the  preceding  chapters  I  have  given  you  the 
life  and  letters  of  George  Inness,  and  any  at- 
tempt on  my  part  to  write  of  his  art  seems  futile, 
as  so  much  has  already  been  written  on  the  subject 
by  pens  far  more  facile  than  mine.  As  I  read  over 
the  many  articles  that  have  been  written  on  my 
father's  art,  his  aims,  his  theories,  and  his  color,  so 
beautifully  expressed  by  Mr.  Daingerfield  and  others, 
I  find  that  these  so  thoroughly  record  my  own  feel- 
ings and  understanding  that  I  feel  constrained  to 
stop.  On  the  other  hand,  knowing  my  father  so  in- 
timately, and  living  as  I  did  for  many  years  in  the 
closest  companionship  with  him,  I  feel  that  a  review 
of  his  art  would  not  go  amiss  here,  and  if  I  repeat 
the  thoughts  of  those  who  have  already  written  of 
Inness,  I  hope  that  I  shall  not  be  accused  of  plagia- 
rism. 

George  Inness  was  in  the  highest  sense  of  the  word 
a  colorist.  By  color  I  do  not  mean  the  daubing  of 
bright  pigments  on  canvas,  yards  and  yards  of  which 
can  be  found  in  our  public  exhibitions  of  to-day,  color 

226 


THE  ART  OF  GEORGE  INNESS 

as  expressed  by  our  up-to-date  painter,  the  one  who 
scoffs  at  everything  old  fashioned.  As  my  friend 
Thomas  Moran  said,  "They  seem  to  be  trying  to  dis- 
cover a  new  way  to  paint." 

It  would  be  belittling  art  too  much  for  me  to  dwell 
on  the  self-styled  "Cubist"  or  "Futurist,"  as  they  have 
no  more  place  in  art  than  any  other  obscene  degen- 
erate. I  mention  them  here  only  because  the  public 
crowded  their  exhibitions  and  men  paid  money  for 
their  disgusting  display. 

George  Inness  never  sought  new  ways  to  paint,  he 
was  ever  striving  to  render  nature  as  she  is  to  one  of 
pure  thought  and  high  ideals.  He  tried  to  interpret 
her,  to  tell  the  truth  about  her,  to  tell  the  world  of  her 
beauty,  of  her  coquetry,  and  sometimes  of  her  tragedy. 
He  depicted  fields  and  sky,  trees,  mountain-peaks, 
streams,  and  valleys,  and  the  pranks  that  light  and 
shade  played  upon  her;  and  sometimes  storms  that 
hurled  themselves  upon  the  earth  as  though  intent 
upon  her  destruction,  and  the  sun  that  thrust  away 
the  fearsome  clouds  and  clothed  her  in  a  glory  of  color 
such  as  few  but  George  Inness  could  depict. 

Color  to  George  Inness  did  not  mean  red,  yellow, 
and  blue,  but  a  harmonious  blending  and  arranging 
of  these  colors  that  would  suggest  light  and  air,  heat 
and  cold,  a  suggestion  of  the  color  that  is  more  bril- 
liant than  the  colors  themselves.    We  speak  of  his 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

pictures  as  "intense  in  color."  So  they  are,  but  not 
by  gobs  of  pigment  that  make  up  the  color  sense  of 
so  many  of  our  modern  landscapists.  I  might  give 
names  and  descriptions  to  illustrate,  but  it  would  not 
be  discreet  to  turn  critic  and  make  comparisons  further 
than  to  say  that  the  stuff  that  is  often  paraded  in  our 
Fifth  Avenue  galleries  and  our  exhibitions,  with  its 
distorted  drawing  and  gobs  of  crude  pigment,  give 
one  absolutely  no  sense  of  color,  and  to  a  man  so 
sensitive  to  the  truth  and  poetry  of  nature  as  my 
father  was  would  seem  a  most  horrible  distortion. 

Color  is  not  paint.  A  sense  of  color  is  obtained  by 
arranging  the  three  primary  colors,  red,  yellow,  and 
blue,  so  that  they  will  make  a  harmony,  and  so  blend- 
ing them  that  they  will  give  a  sense  of  light  and 
warmth  that  is  felt  in  nature.  When  it  gives  a  bright 
vivid  feeling  we  call  it  "color,"  when  it  gives  an  even 
subtle  luminosity,  as  in  Corot,  we  call  it  "tone." 
These  two  combined  give  the  very  glory  of  nature. 
Quality  is  that  indescribable  something  that  permeates 
the  whole  tone  of  a  picture  and  gives  it  the  sense  of 
fullness,  depth,  and  completeness.  To  have  a  color- 
ful picture  with  quality  of  tone,  the  colors  must  be 
complimentary.  A  red  must  not  j  ar  against  a  blue ; 
the  blue  and  red  must  be  toned  to  harmonize.  One 
color  coming  against  another  will  so  change  that  color 
that  it  is  hard  to  believe  that  it  is  the  same  pigment 


THE  ART  OF  GEORGE  INNESS 

that  was  mixed  on  the  palette.  If  one  paints  a  tone 
of  black  and  white,  making  a  light  gray  sky,  and 
then  paints  in  white  clouds  against  it,  it  will  look  gray, 
but  if  the  clouds  are  given  a  pinkish  tone,  the  sky 
will  change  from  gray  to  blue.  White  paint  never 
gives  the  sense  of  light.  It  must  be  modeled,  so  to 
speak,  with  other  tones  to  give  contrast,  to  express 
light.  The  white  or  whatever  color  used  must  be  in 
contrast  to  the  forms  around  it.  If  a  picture  is 
painted  all  in  sunlight,  and  the  colors  are  imitated  as 
the  artist  thinks  he  sees  them,  the  picture  will  not 
express  light.  It  will  be  merely  a  hodgepodge  of 
pigment  and  a  mass  of  paint,  as  many  Plein-air  or 
flat-sunlight  pictures  are ;  but  if  forms  are  painted  in 
in  shadow,  a  contrast  is  established,  and  if  these 
shadow  forms  are  kept  full  and  permeated  with  the 
general  tone  and  color  of  the  picture,  there  is  a  pleas- 
ant harmony  that  lends  beauty  to  the  whole. 

Some  artists  have  no  tone  or  color  sense,  and  their 
pictures,  no  matter  how  well  done,  are  stupid  and 
without  charm.  Some  have  a  feeling  for  bright  pig- 
ments without  tone.  These  pictures  are  horrible  and 
discordant.  The  tonal  artist  is  delightful,  and  when 
he  has  this  tonal  sense  combined  with  grace  of  form, 
as  Corot  had,  he  reaches  a  height  which  very  few 
attain.  Now,  all  this  George  Inness  has,  combined 
with  the  most  vivid  sense  of  brilliant  color,  which 

231 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

brings  his  canvases  to  those  heights  which  none  has 
surpassed. 

Take  the  "Autumn  Oaks"  in  the  Metropolitan 
Museum.  Here  we  have  a  chance  to  revel  in  a  wealth 
of  color — bright,  vivid  reds  and  blues  and  yellows, 
grays  and  greens.  It  is  a  wonderful  composition, 
and  as  daring  in  its  conception  as  it  is  beautiful  in 
drawing  and  construction.  The  scene  is  the  autumn 
of  the  year,  when  nature  is  changing  all  her  robes 
and  dons  fantastic  hues.  Here  the  artist,  with  con- 
summate skill  and  knowledge,  has  let  his  fancy  out 
and  piled  color  upon  color  with  a  delight  that  takes 
him  in  the  midst  of  what  he  loves.  Was  it  done 
from  nature?  No.  It  could  not  be.  It  is  done 
from  art,  which  molds  nature  to  its  will  and  shows 
her  hidden  glory. 

In  this  little  canvas  Inness  strives  to  show  the  won- 
ders of  an  autumn  scene.  He  shows  us  a  clump  of 
oaks  all  in  red,  and  to  accentuate  this  red  and  make 
it  more  intense,  he  puts  a  cool,  green  tree  in  front. 
The  vivid  green  that  is  on  the  grassy  slope  he  checks 
with  a  deep  shadow  in  the  foreground  to  concentrate 
the  light,  and  then  to  give  a  new  sensation,  he  dashes 
in  some  dark-green  trees  beyond.  Fearing  this  note 
is  too  severe,  he  deftly  thrusts  a  golden  hickory  be- 
tween them  and  the  oak  to  bring  us  back  to  riot  in 
the  saturated  color.    Then  he  takes  us  down  below 

232 


THE  ART  OF  GEORGE  INNESS 

the  hill  to  catch  our  breath  and  rest  in  meadows  filled 
with  placid  light. 

You  will  find  that  in  this  picture  Inness  has  painted 
very  frankly.  All  the  local  color  is  put  on  full  and 
free.  The  canvas  has  then  been  glazed,  I  should 
say,  with  some  such  tone  as  sienna,  to  give  richness 
and  depth  to  the  colors;  then  he  has  painted  on  the 
lights  again  with  opaque  pigments  of  red,  yellow  and 
green  to  give  firmness  and  intenseness  to  the  lights. 
But  he  has  left  the  glazed  color  in  the  shadows.  That 
gives  transparency  and  atmosphere.  A  shadow  or 
dark  hole  is  always  transparent  in  nature,  and  one 
can  look  into  it.  If  it  were  painted  opaque,  it  would 
be  like  a  patch  of  dark  on  the  surface  of  the  canvas, 
and  would  lack  the  sense  of  looking  through  it. 
Shadows  always  have  a  transparent  quality,  and  light 
is  always  opaque,  which  gives  the  brilliancy. 

I  was  in  an  artist's  studio  one  day  when  he  showed 
me  a  portrait  with  a  dark-gray  background.  "I  can't 
make  that  go  back,"  he  said.  "What 's  the  matter?" 
The  picture  was  dry,  and  I  induced  him  to  glaze  the 
background  over  with  a  thin  film  of  black.  It  low- 
ered the  tone,  to  be  sure,  but  it  made  it  retire,  and 
it  gave  the  appearance  of  being  seen  through  into 
space.  He  said:  "I  never  heard  of  that  before. 
It 's  good." 

To  paint  a  girl's  blue  dress,  for  instance,  one  might 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

use  blue  and  white  with  other  tones,  and  model  it  up 
to  show  the  folds;  but  the  thing  looks  dull  and  flat. 
Then  glaze  it  all  over  with  cobalt  and  paint  up  the 
lights  again,  and  it  will  have  a  life  and  sparkle  that 
it  never  had  before. 

I  know  that  few  artists  paint  in  this  way,  but  I 
am  giving  George  Inness's  method,  which  was  also 
Titian's.  I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  all  painting 
should  be  done  in  this  way.  There  are  many  sub- 
jects that  should  be  treated  differently.  A  mural 
painting  that  is  to  be  light  in  key  and  seen  from  a 
long  distance  should  be  painted  boldly  and  opaquely 
to  make  it  carry.  I  am  speaking  here  only  of  Inness's 
pictures  and  of  how  he  did  them.  His  are  easel  pic- 
tures that  must  be  examined  closely  to  trace  the  deli- 
cate subtle  tones  that  give  the  very  breath  of  nature 
as  felt  by  the  poet  mind  that  wrought  them. 

Glance  at  "The  Spring  Blossoms,"  also  in  the 
Metropolitan  Museum,  a  very  wonderful  canvas.  It 
is  Inness  in  another  mood.  He  has  left  the  wild  riot 
of  the  autumn  color  to  sit  beneath  the  apple-tree  and 
watch  the  blossoms  as  they  tremble  in  the  sleepy  sun 
that  is  warming  up  the  earth,  and  throws  an  opales- 
cent light  on  all  about.  See  the  delicacy  of  touch. 
He  has  been  afraid  to  touch  even  the  pencil-marks  for 
fear  of  one  harsh  note  that  might  disturb  the  blush 
and  make  the  petals  fall. 

234 


THE  ART  OF  GEORGE  INNESS 

Now  turn  to  that  great  piece  of  painting,  "Evening 
at  Medfield."  See  the  willow-stumps  that  throw 
their  arms  out  to  the  golden  sky.  All  the  rest  is 
veiled  in  a  luminous  shadow  form  out  of  which  a  cow 
plods  home  to  rest;  and  as  we  look  we  feel  the  twi- 
light fade,  and  turn  away  content.    The  day  is  done. 

You  will  find  by  looking  closely  at  this  picture  that 
it  has  been  painted  on  a  clean  white  canvas,  contrary 
to  his  usual  method  of  painting  and  repainting.  The 
colors  of  the  landscape  have  been  frotted,  or  scrubbed 
in,  very  thinly,  the  texture  of  the  canvas  being  visible 
through  the  film  of  paint.  The  local  color  of  the 
shadow  is  imitated  by  mixing  greens  with  umber  or 
some  such  color,  and  then  with  a  delicate  use  of  gray 
he  traces  out  the  forms  of  the  stone  wall,  the  trunks 
of  trees,  and  the  road  that  leads  you  over  the  bridge. 
The  opaque  gray,  dragged  over  the  under  color,  gives 
one  the  sense  of  different  textures,  and  though  the 
whole  is  nothing  more  than  a  wash,  gives  the  feeling 
of  solidity.  Now,  he  paints  in  the  sky,  a  golden  yel- 
low, in  an  entirely  different  way.  He  lays  the  paint 
on  thick  and  solid,  and  unless  we  know  his  process, 
we  feel  that  it  has  no  connection  with  the  landscape. 
In  other  words,  it  is  crude  and  disappointing.  But 
when  this  is  dry,  he  glazes  it  all  over  with  raw  sienna, 
which  brings  the  sky  into  harmony  with  the  rest  of 
the  picture  and  gives  it  a  vibrant  glow,  and  you  have 

237 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

before  you  a  twilight  sky  that  is  brilliancy  itself. 

Take  "The  Greenwood,"  in  my  opinion  one  of  the 
greatest  examples  of  landscape-painting  ever  done, 
or  shall  we  say  nature  painting?  Though  it  is  a 
superb  composition,  there  is  no  pictorial  prettiness  in 
it.  It  is  simply  nature,  outdoor  nature  pure  and 
simple,  a  scene  that  few  but  Inness  would  select. 
There  is  nothing  in  this  canvas  to  attract  the  buyer. 
I  heard  a  dealer  speak  of  it  as  a  hard  seller.  Yes, 
a  hard  seller  to  the  man  whose  art  sense  consists  in 
picture-painting.  "The  Greenwood"  is  not  picture- 
painting.  It  is  nature,  and  grand,  true  nature.  The 
very  plainness  of  the  subject  makes  its  grandeur, 
and  the  breadth  and  simplicity  of  its  treatment  con- 
vey its  wonder.  You  emerge  from  a  wood.  Every- 
thing is  green — green  grass,  green  trees,  green  every- 
thing, except  a  patch  of  sky  that  appears  under  the 
trees  at  the  left  of  the  picture.  This  patch  of  sky  is 
crisp  and  cool  and  makes  you  quicken  your  step,  as 
it  puts  life  and  vigor  into  your  lungs.  And  looking 
about,  you  feel  it 's  all  outdoors  and  all  your  own, 
shared  only  with  the  girl  who  strolls  through  the  wood 
to  fetch  the  cows  home  from  the  pasture  in  the  strip 
of  light  beyond.  But  she  will  pass  and  leave  it  all 
to  you  again.  Herein  lies  one  of  the  great  charms 
of  Inness.  Where  he  introduces  a  figure,  though  it 
is  only  a  dot  of  light  and  shade,  a  little  speck  of  color, 

238 


THE  ART  OF  GEORGE  INNESS 

it  moves  and  has  a  grace  of  form  that  only  a  great 
draftsman  can  give. 

Any  one  who  knows  drawing  knows  that  George 
Inness's  drawing  is  something  to  wonder  at.  It  is 
not  drawing  of  a  line,  but  masses  that  give  the  im- 
pression of  movement  and  form  that  give  the  feeling 
of  the  truth  of  nature.  I  have  spoken  of  Inness  as 
hating  tricks  of  brush  and  palette-knife,  and  yet  he 
had  a  most  wonderful  skill  of  technic.  Notice  how 
a  bush  or  weed  is  introduced.  It  is  not  drawn  to  give 
it  shape.  It  is  simply  there,  and  with  a  twist  of  the 
brush  it  takes  on  life  and  grace  as  it  bends  to  the 
gentle  breeze  that  blows  through  the  wood.  All 
these  little  forms  in  Inness's  pictures  have  character 
and  meaning.  They  are  not  little  dabs  of  pigment 
to  give  strength  only,  or  to  break  up  the  monotony 
of  the  foreground,  but  are  living  things  that  move  and 
add  so  much  to  the  wonder  of  outdoors  when  walking 
through  the  greenwood. 

Now  I  should  like  to  show  you  the  pictures  in  the 
private  gallery  of  Mr.  James  W.  Ellsworth,  who  has 
a  dozen  canvases  which  he  bought  through  love  of  art, 
wherein  lies  their  great  value  in  his  eyes. 

We  enter  a  spacious  room,  the  library,  with  its 
books  and  paneled  oaken  walls.  Here  and  there  is  a 
vase  of  rare  antiquity,  with  ancient  carvings  and  many 
things  that  bring  back  glimpses  of  those  days  when 

239 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

Greece  was  in  its  glory.  Here  on  these  grand,  but 
somber,  walls  are  arranged  the  Inness  pictures  in  ex- 
quisite taste. 

See  this  one,  the  "Trout-Brook,"  painted  in  1891,  a 
wood  in  spring.  The  light  is  getting  low  enough  to 
cast  long  shadows;  a  huge  tree-trunk  cuts  almost 
through  the  middle  of  the  picture;  a  pool  of  water  at 
its  roots  reflects  the  sun,  which  is  peeping  through  the 
distant  foliage,  which  in  the  limpid  light  is  almost  like 
a  vapor.  Beside  the  pool,  which  is  fringed  with  fresh, 
young,  vibrant  green,  there  stands  a  girl  in  dark  who 
is  almost  silhouetted  against  that  marvelous,  inde- 
scribable light  which  permeates  the  entire  canvas.  A 
little  farther  back — I  say  back,  because  you  can  look 
into  an  Inness  landscape — the  figures  of  a  shepherd 
and  his  dog  are  guarding  a  flock  of  sheep  that  is  pass- 
ing through  the  open  space.  But  are  they  sheep? 
Well,  never  mind ;  it  is  something  moving  through  the 
shimmering  light.  Then  let  your  fancy  roam  and 
paint  the  picture  to  your  liking.  For  that  it  was  cre- 
ated. This  is  not  a  picture:  it  is  nature,  a  creation, 
and  so  wonderfully  wrought  that  you  are  really  there. 
Sitting  by  the  brook,  you  let  your  fancy  out,  forget- 
ting all  the  troubles  of  the  day,  and  bask  in  quiet 
peace  with  Inness  in  the  soothing,  mellow  light  that 
is  saturating  everything  it  touches  on  this  fading  day 
of  spring. 

240 


THE  ART  OF  GEORGE  INNESS 

And  now  we  swiftly  change  to  another  mood,  and 
leave  the  languid,  mellow  spring  twilight  to  look  upon 
an  angry,  choppy  sea,  the  spray  of  which  dashes 
against  the  rocks  of  Normandy.  The  scene  is  at 
Etretat,  and  through  the  arched  rocks  you  see  an 
angry  sun,  the  blood-red  fury  of  which  will  soon  be 
quenched  behind  the  distant  wave,  and  let  the  blue 
black  clouds  that  are  gathering  in  the  west  have  sway 
and  lash  out  their  fury  through  the  night.  The 
fisher-boats  come  safely  in.  It  bids  fair  for  the  mor- 
row. 

Now  glance  at  this  upright  "Midsummer,"  a  clump 
of  oaks.  How  it  fills  you  with  a  sense  of  grandeur! 
The  form  is  majestic,  and  the  big  white  clouds  give 
its  edge  the  keenness  of  a  knife;  but  all  is  in  such 
complete  harmony  of  color  and  light  and  shade  that 
it  makes  you  feel  great  waves  of  rhythm,  as  of  strains 
of  music,  a  harmony  that  gives  delight,  no  matter 
what  the  medium.  This  canvas  was  painted  in  1892 
in  the  big  broad  stage  of  his  art,  the  last  stage. 

Here  is  a  simple  lowland  dell  surrounded  by  green 
trees.  We  find  no  strain  in  this  composition,  no  at- 
tempt at  picture-painting,  but  nature,  pure  nature, 
in  midsummer.  It  shows  a  rock,  some  trunks  of  trees, 
one  splashed  with  light,  another  dark  and  somber, 
and  on  that  knoll  something  moving.  It  looks  like 
two  forms,  one  light,  the  other  dark.    What  are  they, 

243 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

cattle  or  two  lovers,  perhaps,  strolling  through  the 
wood?  Shape  them  to  your  will;  there  is  a  lot  of 
fancy  when  you  are  out  with  Inness. 

Now,  this  "Indian  Summer,"  signed  in  1891,  is  all 
in  light  of  an  autumn  afternoon.  The  sun  is  behind 
you  and  illumines  the  forms  of  cattle  and  of  men. 
The  picture  is  full  of  the  kind  of  life  that  speaks  of 
human  things.  In  the  foreground  is  a  running  brook. 
Some  cattle  have  just  raised  their  heads,  and,  having 
slaked  their  thirst,  will  stroll  back  through  this  field 
of  autumn  green  to  join  their  comrades,  resting  un- 
derneath a  group  of  noble  elms  and  oaks,  all  bathed 
in  reddish  light.  As  you  look,  you  see  the  figure  of 
a  boy,  whose  glance  you  follow  to  the  distant  trees 
that  melt  into  the  warm,  delicious  vapors  of  an  In- 
dian summer  day. 

Now  turn  to  this  one,  an  entirely  different  kind  of 
picture.  It  was  painted  back  in  the  fifties,  and  how 
different  from  the  later  ones !  Still,  it  has  the  Inness 
breath  in  it.  You  would  know  it  anywhere.  Each 
leaf  is  painted  on  the  tree ;  a  herd  of  cattle  is  passing 
from  a  field  to  take  the  road  that  crosses  on  a  bridge 
that  leads  to  home,  where,  after  their  bursting  udders 
have  yielded  up  their  store,  they  '11  lay  them  down  to 
rest,  content  to  know  they  are  lending  to  the  joy  of 
life  that  is  pictured  everywhere.  They  are  bathed  in 
that  triumphant  light  which  years  and  years  ago 

244 


THE  ART  OF  GEORGE  INNESS 

Henry  Ward  Beecher  named  "The  Light  Trium- 
phant," and  prophesied  the  future  of  its  painter. 

And  now  in  contrast  to  this  "Light  Triumphant" 
there  is  "The  Shower  on  the  Delaware  River,"  done  in 
1891,  that  is  also  full  of  light,  but  full  of  light  that 
permeates  everything.  The  deep  shadow  of  the  fore- 
ground sparkles  with  reflected  light  that  filters 
through  the  rain,  throwing  a  bow  across  the  sky.  The 
man  and  cattle  here  in  front  halt  to  gaze  with  wonder 
on  this  inspiring  sight. 

We  have  let  our  fancy  run  with  Inness  through 
the  woods  and  fields,  and  now  we  come  to  this  "Au- 
tumn Morning,"  but  we  must  stop  because  the  ground 
is  wet.  With  heads  erect,  we 've  wandered  on  ob- 
livious to  everything  but  that  glorious  autumn  sky  and 
the  big  hickory,  the  top  of  which  is  blazing  with  a  rosy 
light,  standing  in  relief  against  an  azure  blue.  Un- 
heeding, we  find  we  have  run  our  feet  into  a  swamp, 
and  must  go  back  again.  But  wait.  There  is  still 
another  that  we  must  see  before  we  reluctantly  turn 
away — "The  Home  at  Montclair."  It  was  painted 
just  behind  the  artist's  house,  where  many  a  field  of 
waving  corn  and  many  a  green  pasture  dotted  with 
sheep  was  painted.  But  now  it  is  all  in  white;  its 
winter  blanket  is  spread  over  all,  keeping  the  earth 
warm  until  the  coming  of  spring.  There  is  nothing 
startling  in  this  great  work  of  art,  and  yet  you  are 

245 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

filled  with  a  sense  of  bigness,  grandeur,  and  the  very- 
conviction  of  truth  and  nature.  These  are  not  pic- 
tures ;  they  are  art.  They  are  done  with  art,  not  paint. 
They  are  not  mere  representations  of  things  or  na- 
ture; they  are  the  soul  of  the  master  as  he  takes  us 
with  him  in  spirit  and  teaches  us  of  God's  out-of-doors. 

George  Inness  never  tried  to  deceive.  His  whole 
aim  was  to  tell  the  truth  that  nature  taught  him.  His 
great  regret  was  that  he  was  limited  to  paint.  "If 
I  could  only  paint  it  without  paint!"  was  his  lament. 

He  has  often  said  that  his  great  ambition  was  to 
paint  a  picture  that  would  so  disguise  his  technic  that 
one  would  wonder  how  it  was  done.  To  make  a  fold 
of  a  dress  with  one  sweep  of  the  brush  or  a  cloud  by 
a  wipe  of  the  thumb  was  no  virtue  in  his  eyes.  The 
dress  should  look  real,  and  the  cloud  should  float  in 
the  atmosphere.  No  matter  how  it  was  done,  and 
the  further  it  was  removed  from  the  suggestion  of 
the  brush,  the  greater  the  work  of  art.  No;  there 
was  none  of  the  mountebank  in  Inness.  Everything 
he  knew  in  art  was  gained  by  the  hardest  work,  the 
closest  and  most  minute  study  of  nature.  He  would 
say  to  me:  "Draw,  draw,  draw.  Learn  your  art 
thoroughly,  have  it  at  the  tips  of  your  fingers,  be 
able  to  do  it  with  your  eyes  shut,  so  that  if  you  have 
anything  to  express  you  will  be  able  to  do  it  without 

246 


THE  ART  OF  GEORGE  INNESS 

the  slightest  hesitancy.  Know  forms,  know  nature, 
as  a  musician  knows  his  notes  before  he  attempts  to 
render  a  harmony." 

All  of  my  father's  work  was  most  painstaking,  and 
although  at  times  it  would  seem  that  he  was  dashing 
madly  and  wildly  at  a  canvas,  so  rapid  was  his  work 
and  so  intense  his  feeling,  nevertheless  a  sure  knowl- 
edge of  the  form  he  wished  to  produce  could  always 
be  traced  in  every  touch.  No  matter  with  what  in- 
tensity he  worked,  and  he  often  rushed  at  a  canvas 
as  though  his  object  were  to  thrust  his  fist  through 
it,  there  would  be  no  doubt  that  it  was  an  elm-tree 
that  he  wished  to  represent,  and  not  an  oak.  He 
would  never  set  a  pine-tree  where  a  willow  ought  to 
grow,  or  place  chrysanthemums  in  a  lily  pond. 
When  he  painted  a  skunk  cabbage  he  knew  just 
where  to  place  it,  and  when  he  painted  a  rainbow  it 
was  absolutely  right,  and  all  the  atmospheric  condi- 
tions were  thoroughly  carried  out  in  a  truthful  and 
scientific  manner.  To  be  sure,  it  might  be  suggested 
by  just  a  little  touch  of  light,  but  it  would  be  in  the 
right  place,  and  the  conditions  of  light  would  be  ex- 
actly correct  to  account  for  its  existence.  When  he 
painted  a  sunrise  it  could  never  be  mistaken  for  a 
sunset.  You  feel  the  cool  moisture  of  the  morning. 
In  his  sunsets  there  is  no  doubt  as  to  whether  it  is  a 

249 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

wet  sky  or  a  dry,  hot  one,  because  of  his  cloud  forms, 
which  he  knew  as  truly  as  he  knew  the  different  trees. 
Looking  at  an  Inness,  you  instinctively  know  the  kind 
of  day  it  is. 

One  day  a  great  many  years  ago  my  father  and  I 
were  walking  through  the  old  Academy  of  Design 
at  Twenty-third  Street  and  Fourth  Avenue  when  we 
saw  a  group  of  artists  looking  at  one  of  my  father's 
pictures,  which  represented  a  late  afternoon,  with  the 
sun  going  down  behind  a  clump  of  trees  as  a  big  ball 
of  red.    When  we  approached  one  of  the  artists  said : 

"Inness,  we  have  just  been  discussing  this  beauti- 
ful canvas  of  yours,  but  we  cannot  understand  how 
you,  who  have  been  such  a  close  student  of  nature, 
could  have  painted  a  sun  in  your  picture  that  throws 
no  shadow  from  the  trees." 

Father  looked  over  his  glasses  and  said : 

"Have  you  studied  nature  so  little  that  you  don't 
know  that  if  the  sun  is  strong  enough  to  cast  a  shadow 
of  the  trees  it  would  burn  your  eyes  out,  and  you  could 
see  nothing?" 

When  Inness  painted  a  thunder-storm  he  painted 
thunder-clouds,  not  wind-clouds.  Very  few  of  his 
pictures  were  finished  from  nature,  and  in  the  later 
days  of  his  life  none.  His  pictures  were  expressions 
of  himself,  not  imitations  of  what  he  saw;  they  were 
expressions  of  the  feeling  the  thing  he  saw  wrought 

250 


THE  ART  OF  GEORGE  INNESS 

upon  him.  No  truly  great  painting  can  be  done  by- 
imitating  nature  alone.  A  man  must  study  nature 
and  master  all  its  details  until  he  knows  them  so 
thoroughly  that  when  he  is  painting  in  his  studio — 
creating,  interpreting  an  emotion,  putting  himself  on 
the  canvas,  as  it  were,  for  you  to  love,  he  does  it  un- 
consciously. The  detail  takes  care  of  itself  because 
it  is  there  and  leaves  the  true  artist  free  to  indulge 
his  fancy  and  let  his  desire  for  the  beautiful  run 
rampant.  To  gain  this  great  power  which  Inness 
had — and  he  had  it  stronger  than  any  painter  I  ever 
knew — he  struggled  and  studied  with  deep  intensity, 
even  to  the  most  minute  details,  things  which  to-day 
are  ridiculed  by  the  men  who  are  trying  to  invent  a 
new  way  to  paint.  My  father's  study  from  nature 
was  very  methodical  and  painstaking  from  his  earliest 
endeavors,  and  he  kept  the  practice  up  until  a  very 
few  years  before  his  death.  Of  course  I  do  not  mean 
to  imply  that  he  never  made  quick  sketches  and  almost 
instantaneous  impressions  from  nature,  for  there  are 
many  such  drawings  to  prove  that  he  did;  but  when 
he  painted  from  nature  it  was  a  very  serious  under- 
taking, as  the  letters  to  my  mother  from  Milton, 
Siasconset,  and  Goochland  indicate. 

His  method  was  generally  to  stain  a  canvas  with  a 
light-brown  tint,  say  of  raw  umber,  and  when  dry, 
take  it  out  to  the  place  he  had  selected,  where  he 

251 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

would  draw  in  most  carefully  with  charcoal  or  pencil 
the  forms  of  the  things  he  saw  and  wished  to  have  in 
the  picture.  He  would  often  leave  out  a  tree  or  other 
object  that  interfered  with  his  composition.  After 
the  whole  was  drawn  in,  and  every  little  crook  in  the 
limb  of  the  tree  that  would  give  character,  and  every 
little  sway  in  the  roof  of  the  barn,  the  twisting  and 
rising  and  falling  of  the  road,  every  clump  of  golden- 
rod  or  a  straggling  daisy  that  found  itself  out  so 
late,  would  be  put  in  with  care,  if  it  lent  vigor  to  the 
composition.  If  not,  it  was  as  though  it  did  not 
exist.  Then  with  raw  umber  and  some  strong  drier 
he  would  go  over  all  the  outlines,  correcting  here  and 
there  a  bit  of  drawing.  Then  he  would  paint  on  the 
lights  or  opaque  parts  of  his  picture  as  near  the  local 
color  of  the  object  as  he  could,  and  the  sky  a  rather 
neutral  tone  of  yellow  ocher,  black  and  white.  That 
constituted  the  first  day's  work ;  that  was  all. 

The  next  day,  due  to  the  vehicle  he  had  used,  the 
canvas  would  be  dry,  and  he  would  rub  in  the  shadows, 
always  keeping  them  transparent,  and  imitating  as 
he  went  the  texture  of  the  rocks,  the  trees,  and  the 
grass.  I  have  known  him  to  keep  at  one  study  for 
a  week  or  more  at  a  time,  using  a  quick-drying 
medium  which  enabled  him  to  glaze  his  picture  every 
day  if  he  found  it  necessary.  Glazing  is  done  by 
passing  a  transparent  color  such  as  umber,  black, 

252 


THE  ART  OF  GEORGE  INNESS 

sienna,  or  cobalt  over  the  canvas  or  parts  of  it,  thinned 
down  with  oil  or  some  such  medium  to  make  it  flow. 
This  lowers  the  tone  of  the  canvas,  but  brings  the 
whole  in  harmony,  and  enriches  the  color  of  the 
opaque  parts  of  the  picture.  On  this  glaze  the  artist 
generally  paints  again  with  opaque  color  to  bring  up 
the  light  and  add  to  the  texture.  This  sometimes  has 
the  effect  of  darkening  a  picture  too  much.  In  such 
an  event  the  whole  canvas  has  to  be  scumbled  again 
to  bring  it  back  to  a  lighter  tone,  although  this  is 
rarely  done. 

Scumbling  is  done  by  passing  an  opaque  color  over 
the  picture,  say  white,  yellow  ocher,  or  cadmium.  A 
scumble  always  has  to  be  worked  in,  and  if  the  shad- 
ows are  to  be  kept  transparent,  it  is  necessary  to  wait 
another  day  for  the  scumble  to  dry  that  it  may  be 
glazed  in  again.  Any  transparent  color  will  form  a 
glaze. 

Thus,  according  to  this  method,  my  father  would 
drive  along,  glazing  down  and  painting  up  the  lights, 
rubbing  and  scrubbing,  but  always  keeping  the  color 
pure  until  the  picture  was  finished  to  his  satisfaction 
or  until  he  wearied  of  the  subject. 

These  canvases  rarely  got  to  the  public  in  their 
original  condition,  but  would  be  worked  over  in  the 
studio  and  often  to  such  an  extent  that  there  was 
nothing  left  to  suggest  the  subject  first  painted. 

253 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

This  method  of  painting,  glazing,  and  scumbling, 
scratching  and  scrubbing,  was  practised  by  my  father 
continuously,  though  occasionally  he  departed  from  it 
and  painted  frankly.  He  did  anything  that  pro- 
duced the  effect  he  wanted,  but  he  usually  went  back 
to  his  old  love — transparent  color. 

One  day  Pop  and  I  were  painting  in  the  old  Uni- 
versity Building  on  Washington  Square,  where  we 
had  a  studio,  when  a  young  man  appeared.  He  said 
he  was  a  student  at  the  Art  Students  League,  and 
that  he  looked  upon  George  Inness  as  the  greatest 
landscape-painter,  and  would  consider  it  a  great  privi- 
lege if  he  might  be  allowed  to  watch  him  paint. 

"Come  right  in,"  said  my  father,  "and  if  you  can 
learn  anything  from  me,  you  are  welcome  to  it.  I 
will  go  on  with  this  picture  that  I  am  trying  to  bring 
into  shape.  Sit  down."  Then  he  squeezed  a  lot  of 
raw  umber  on  his  palette,  picked  up  the  largest  brush 
he  could  find,  and  with  the  aid  of  a  medium  that 
looked  like  Spaulding's  glue  he  went  at  the  canvas 
as  though  he  were  scrubbing  the  floor,  smearing  it 
over,  sky  and  all,  with  a  thin  coat  of  brown.  The 
young  man  looked  aghast,  and  when  Pop  was  through 
said: 

"But,  Mr.  Inness,  do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that 
you  resort  to  such  methods  as  glazing  to  paint  your 
pictures?" 

254 


THE  ART  OF  GEORGE  INNESS 

Father  rushed  up  to  the  young  man,  and,  glower- 
ing at  him  over  his  glasses,  as  he  held  the  big  brush 
just  under  his  visitor's  nose,  exclaimed: 

"Young  man,  have  you  come  here  from  the  Art 
Students  League  to  tell  me  how  to  paint?  Then  go 
back  there  and  tell  them  I 'd  paint  with  mud  if  it 
would  give  me  the  effect  I  wanted." 

In  the  Art  Institute  in  Chicago  there  is  one  of  the 
most  representative  collections  of  Innesses  in  the 
country,  thanks  to  the  public-spirited  generosity  of 
Mr.  Edward  B.  Butler  of  that  city,  who  himself  is  a 
painter  in  his  leisure  moments.  This  beautiful  and 
complete  museum  of  art  has  devoted  an  entire  room 
to  George  Inness.  It  contains  twenty-one  canvases, 
showing  examples  of  work  ranging  from  1870  to  his 
last  period,  which  continued  to  within  a  very  short 
time  of  his  death. 

One  of  these  canvases,  "The  Catskill  Mountains," 
a  large  picture,  dated  1870,  shows  an  afternoon  sun 
pouring  down  from  behind  blue  clouds,  tipped  with 
opalescent  light,  which  is  thrown  across  the  mountain- 
range,  permeating  the  whole  scene.  The  style  of  it 
is  very  similar  to  "Peace  and  Plenty,"  and  shows  his 
earlier  methods.  You  will  notice  that  everything  is 
made  out  with  minute  delineation.  Every  tree  is 
painted  individually  and  stands  apart,  this  elaboration 
being  carried  from  foreground  to  distance;  and 

255 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

though  it  has  a  wonderful  envelopment  and  charm  of 
light,  it  does  not  deal  so  strongly  with  the  imaginative 
as  does  the  "Mill-pond,"  which  was  painted  at  a  much 
later  period. 

"The  Mill-pond"  is  an  upright,  and  depicts  a  tall, 
red  oak,  which  fills  most  of  the  picture,  and  by  its 
very  redness  catches  the  eye.  It  is  necessary  to  sit 
before  this  canvas  awhile  to  grasp  its  full  meaning. 
At  first  you  are  impressed  only  with  this  great  mass 
of  reddish  gold,  standing  out  in  intense  relief  against 
a  patch  of  blue  sky.  A  pond  fills  the  middle  distance, 
across  which  are  trees  so  indistinct  and  so  clothed  in 
mystery  that  at  first  glance  you  wonder  what  they 
are.  They  are  painted  in  so  broad  and  indefinite  a 
way  that  they  seem  to  lose  all  sense  of  individual 
forms,  and  in  contrast  to  the  "Catskill  Mountains" 
become  a  mass  of  green,  partly  enveloped  in  the  sky. 
But  as  you  look  more  carefully  you  begin  to  make  out 
certain  undefinable  forms,  and  little  lights  and  shades 
that  take  on  all  sorts  of  shapes  that  you  were  not 
aware  of  at  first.  And  now  straight  across  the  pond 
your  eye  catches  the  dam  as  it  leads  the  water  to  the 
mill.  The  mill  is  not  visible  to  the  human  eye,  but 
your  fancy  tells  you  it  is  hidden  snugly  behind  the 
trees.  The  charm  of  this  picture  is  its  color  and  mys- 
tery, and  but  for  a  boy  and  boat  upon  the  lake  it 
might  seem  monotonous ;  but  this  gives  a  spot  of  light 

256 


From  the  Butler  collection  in  The  Art  Institute  of  Chicago 

THE  MILL  POND 


THE  ART  OF  GEORGE  INNESS 

and  lends  human  interest  to  the  scene.  In  a  brilliant 
green  foreground  a  gnarled  and  rotting  stump,  with 
whitened  bark,  stands  out  vividly,  bringing  to  com- 
pletion a  beautiful  composition. 

In  an  upright,  "Early  Morning,  Tarpon  Springs," 
we  have  a  Florida  scene.  The  tall,  straight  pines 
stand  out  against  a  sky  wet  with  soft,  gray  mist, 
drifting  up  into  blue.  Pink-tipped  clouds  float  lazily 
by,  as  though  they  dared  not  hurry  lest  they  break  the 
stillness  and  the  charm  of  this  fresh  morning.  A 
rosy  light  brightens  up  the  red-roofed  houses  clustered 
in  the  middle  distance,  and  at  our  feet  a  shadow  veils 
a  little  bridge  which  leads  across  the  narrow  brook 
to  that  golden  light  that  fills  everything  beyond. 

"Threatening"  is  a  picture  that  was  painted  in  the 
last  years  of  my  father's  life.  It  is  dated  1891,  and 
shows  the  breadth  of  technic  which  characterizes  that 
period.  It  is  just  one  great  vast  tone  of  gray,  with 
dark,  somber  clouds  rolling  up.  Delicately  relieved 
against  the  stormy  sky  are  fresh,  green  trees.  All 
the  earth  is  in  a  pall  of  lurid  light,  cast  from  a  golden 
spot  that  is  fading  in  the  mist,  soon  to  be  swallowed 
up  in  the  coming  storm.  The  strongest  point  of  in- 
terest is  a  low,  thatched  hut  in  dark,  with  the  figure 
of  a  man  standing  in  front,  hesitating  to  venture  far 
from  shelter.  This  picture  is  painted  thickly,  with 
an  enamel,  so  to  speak. 

259 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

In  direct  contrast  of  technic  to  * '  Threatening/ '  I 
should  like  to  point  out  to  you  "Moonlight  on  Passa- 
maquoddy  Bay."  This  picture  is  not  in  the  Butler 
collection, — and  so  far  I  have  confined  my  remarks 
to  that  room, — but  from  the  very  way  in  which  this 
canvas  is  painted  I  consider  it  well  worth  one's  while 
to  study,  and  so  I  must  mention  it  here.  It  is  in  the 
Ryerson  Collection,  in  the  Art  Institute,  Chicago, 
and  is  one  of  the  most  remarkable  canvases  that  Inness 
ever  did  in  point  of  technic.  To  begin  with,  it  is 
absolutely  free  from  anything  that  might  be  called 
academic,  but  it  shows  a  wonderful  skill  that  could 
come  only  from  the  hand  of  a  master  who  possessed 
a  vast  knowledge  of  forms  and  detail.  This  picture 
was  done  on  a  pure  white  canvas  with  thin  washes  or 
scrubs  of  color  no  thicker  than  water.  The  whole 
canvas  is  nothing  but  a  stain  of  bluish  gray,  relieved 
here  and  there  by  a  tinge  of  other  colors,  giving  a 
sense  of  local  color.  The  only  thick  pigment  in  the 
whole  picture  is  the  moon,  which  is  laid  on  with  a 
solid  dab  of  white. 

The  scene  represents  a  hill  overlooking  the  village 
of  Saint  Andrews,  New  Brunswick,  which  nestles  on 
the  Passamaquoddy  Bay  at  the  mouth  of  the  St.  Croix 
River.  Everything  is  enveloped  in  a  gray-blue  light 
that  spreads  itself  across  the  river  and  shows  the  dim 

260 


THE  ART  OF  GEORGE  INNESS 

outline  of  hills  beyond.  On  the  hillside  smoke  rises 
from  the  chimney  of  a  red  house,  and  the  village 
slumbers  behind  the  trees,  whence  rise  delicate  and 
almost  invisible  vapors.  You  do  not  see  the  forms, 
for  there  are  no  definite  outlines,  but  you  feel  them. 
The  moon,  the  only  bit  of  paint,  is  reflected  in  the 
quiet,  placid  bay.  The  white  spire  of  a  church  juts 
up  into  the  night  sky,  and  the  remarkable  thing  about 
this  form  is  that  it  is  indicated  not  by  paint,  but  by 
a  few  deft  and  telling  scratches  of  the  brush -handle, 
as  are  likewise  indicated  the  forms  of  boats  and  even 
the  figure  of  a  man.  It  is  in  reality  nothing  but  a 
scratch,  but  it  keeps  its  place  most  astonishingly,  and 
from  the  proper  distance,  say  six  or  eight  feet,  the 
whole  canvas  shows  forth  the  most  painstaking  de- 
tail, true  in  every  touch,  with  every  touch  in  its  right- 
ful place  and  nothing  left  to  chance. 

I  remember  very  well  when  my  father  painted  this 
picture  and  when  he  saw  the  scene  which  inspired  it. 
Becoming  filled  with  its  romance,  he  exclaimed: 
"Oh,  if  I  could  only  catch  the  subtle  mystery  of  this ! 
I  will  try  in  the  morning."  That  he  succeeded  is 
only  too  well  proved  in  the  canvas  before  us. 

I  have  not  space  between  these  covers  to  describe 
all  of  the  Butler  Collection,  and  those  I  have  men- 
tioned I  have  not  chosen  because  I  consider  them  the 

261 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

finest,  but  because  I  think  they  give  a  fair  example 
of  the  whole,  and  show  the  different  methods  of  his 
touch. 

As  I  sat  in  the  Inness  Room  on  one  of  the  free 
days,  when  the  museum  was  thronged  with  visitors, 
I  marveled  to  hear  the  passing  remarks  of  those  who 
had  just  come  from  other  rooms,  where  are  shown 
beautiful  canvases  by  noted  men  of  more  or  less  ac- 
ademic skill,  and  to  see  them  sit  down  and  say  with 
delight,  "It  makes  me  feel  that  it  is  real,  that  I  am 
actually  there  in  the  fields  and  woods."  It  is  just 
that  that  is  the  charm  of  Inness.  To  me  Turner  is 
grand,  dramatic,  beautiful  in  tone  and  color,  fantastic, 
and  unreal.  Corot  is  wonderful  in  tonal  quality  and 
luminous  enamel  in  his  skies,  which,  with  the  delicate 
drawing  of  graceful  forms,  give  his  pictures  a  great 
charm.  All  is  very  beautiful,  but  all  is  Corot,  and 
to  me  it  seems  as  though  he  had  invented  something 
beautiful,  or,  if  not  invented,  had  discovered  one  phase 
of  nature  and  was  there  content  to  stop.  But  with 
George  Inness  I  feel  the  very  breath  of  nature.  I 
feel  as  though  I  were  actually  with  him  in  the  picture 
itself. 

Some  artists,  to  express  their  appreciation  of  a 
work  of  art,  use  queer  expressions.  "It  *s  naive," 
"It 's  amusing,"  "It  has  things  in  it."  I  once  went 
to  the  studio  of  an  artist  friend  and  told  him  that  I 

262 


THE  ART  OF  GEORGE  INNESS 

should  like  to  buy  one  of  his  pictures.  He  showed 
me  two  that  I  liked  equally  well.  One  represented 
a  large  boat,  the  other  a  landscape.  I  said  I  found 
it  hard  to  choose  which  one  I  wanted.  He  told  me 
he  would  choose  the  boat  because  it  looked  so  much 
like  a  Persian  rug.    I  replied: 

"I  agree  with  you;  but  as  I  have  a  Persian  rug, 
I  will  take  the  other."  Well,  what  is  art  for?  To 
be  "amusing,"  to  have  "things  in  it,"  or  to  express 
some  emotion  wrought  in  one  by  nature?  "Amus- 
ing," "Naive,"  "Things"  do  not  express  the  pictures 
of  George  Inness.  He  had  no  tricks.  His  striving 
was  to  produce  something  grand,  big,  beautiful,  true. 

And  why  does  not  the  buying  public  get  in  touch 
with  the  artist,  and  read  him  and  learn  from  him  the 
object  of  art,  the  way  to  look  at  pictures,  the  way  to 
learn  to  feel,  and  to  get  out  of  nature  all  that  she  has  to 
tell  us? 

A  man  who  is  interesting  himself  in  paintings 
should  go  among  the  painters,  visit  their  studios,  get 
their  point  of  view  as  to  what  is  fine  in  art,  learn  the 
reason  why  it  is  fine,  learn  what  is  meant  by  tone, 
drawing,  construction.  Learn  to  appreciate  art  for 
the  thought  it  expresses  and  the  story  of  life  it  tells. 
The  artist  is  the  only  one  who  can  tell  him  of  the  art. 
He  is  the  only  one  who  knows.  Then  why  not  go 
to  him  instead  of  to  a  dealer  whose  object  is  to  praise 

265 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

the  thing  that  he  can  get  the  biggest  price  for,  and 
whose  strongest  argument  is  that  what  he  is  selling 
will  turn  out  to  be  an  investment  ?  What  is  the  song 
one  most  frequently  hears  among  collectors  of  pic- 
tures? The  price  he  paid  for  it  and  what  it  will  be 
worth  to  him  a  few  years  hence.  Many  collections 
are  made  for  notoriety  and  a  feeling  that  it  will  be  a 
safe  speculation.  Its  beauty,  its  art,  or  the  emotion 
it  awakens,  has  nothing  to  do  with  it.  Paintings 
should  be  bought  because  one  wants  them,  loves  them, 
wants  them  about  as  treasures  of  beauty,  which  take 
him  out  of  the  turmoil  of  business  and  lead  him  into 
beautiful  paths  of  delightful  thoughts. 

Of  course  it  is  very  delightful  to  be  able  to  give 
the  point  of  view  of  different  men  and  to  discover 
how  they  arrived  at  perfection.  But  what  a  relief 
it  would  be  to  be  taken  to  some  collector's  house  and 
have  him  point  out  a  canvas  whose  painter  is  unknown 
— a  canvas,  unsigned,  but  so  wonderful  in  expression 
of  light  and  shade,  in  color  and  conception,  that  he 
considers  it  one  of  the  gems  of  his  collection!  Yes, 
I  have  known  a  few,  a  very  few  such  collectors. 

So  many  of  our  ultra- wealthy  class  neglect  the 
chance  they  have  to  build  up  a  great  art  in  our  own 
new  country  by  encouraging  the  men  of  talent  that 
they  find  about  them.  They  hunt  the  world  over  to 
find  the  work  of  some  old  masters  long  since  dead,  and 

266 


THE  ART  OF  GEORGE  INNESS 

for  whose  work  they  can  dare  pay  enormous  prices. 
Some  of  the  works  are  great  and  an  acquisition  to 
this  country  and  a  lesson  to  many  an  art  student,  but 
a  lot  of  it  is  perfect  rot,  and  if  produced  by  a  living 
painter,  would  find  it  hard  to  enter  one  of  our  exhibi- 
tions, and  instead  of  being  worth  so  many  thousands 
of  dollars,  would  hardly  bring  as  many  cents. 

With  many  men  there  seems  to  be  a  rivalry  to  see 
who  will  pay  the  biggest  price  for  an  old  master,  and 
I  have  no  doubt  that  one  of  these  days  some  brave 
multi-millionaire  will  have  the  courage  to  pay  a  mil- 
lion dollars  for  a  canvas.  Of  course  just  now  that 
would  be  a  little  high  and  might  bring  on  some 
ridicule. 

And,  now,  how  shall  we  train  the  painter?  I  was 
not  very  long  ago  asked  to  visit  an  art  school.  I 
was  taken  into  a  room  where  a  class  of  the  younger 
pupils  were  at  work.  One  girl  of  about  fourteen 
years  was  pointed  out  as  the  most  promising  student 
in  the  class.  There  she  sat  at  an  easel,  a  palette  on 
her  thumb,  with  enough  gobs  of  paint  upon  it  to  cover 
the  outside  of  the  town  hall.  She  had  on  a  blouse 
which  clothed  her  from  head  to  foot,  and  this  was 
covered  with  all  the  colors  of  the  rainbow,  and  twice 
as  many  besides.  She  had  paint  on  her  hands,  paint 
on  her  face,  and  on  her  hair  and  shoes.  She  was 
painting  from  a  model,  an  old  lady;  it  was  the  por- 

267 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

trait  class.  The  child's  canvas  was  a  great  mass  of 
gobs  of  paint  that  stood  out  in  relief  and  cast  long 
shadows  across  it.  The  hideous  smears  had  no  re- 
semblance to  a  human  form.  There  were  great  green 
daubs  for  eyes,  a  streak  of  black  in  lieu  of  a  mouth, 
and  streaks  of  yellow,  green,  pink,  and  blue  for  color 
of  the  face.  I  looked  aghast,  but  said  nothing. 
How  could  I?  I  was  invited  there  to  praise,  not  to 
criticize.  The  instructor  told  me  she  considered  this 
child  her  most  promising  pupil. 

"You  see,"  she  said,  "she  has  originality;  she  sees 
the  whole  as  an  impression  and  her  color  is  brilliant." 

I  asked  if  they  had  a  class  in  drawing  from  cast. 

"Oh,  no,"  she  replied;  "we  do  not  wish  to  hamper 
them  by  mere  imitation." 

This  is  not  a  fair  sample  of  all  schools,  but  there  is 
more  of  this  sort  of  teaching  than  there  should  be, 
and  more  than  would  be  believed  by  any  one  this  side 
of  an  insane  asylum;  and  from  such  schools  as  these 
we  have  obtained  many  works  to  fill  many  walls  of 
the  Grand  Central  Palace  in  New  York  and  other 
places  of  exhibition. 

In  the  good  old  days  when  Inness  learned  to  paint 
he  had  to  go  to  Barker  in  Newark,  who  gave  him 
first  a  copy-card  to  work  from,  then  a  block  of  plaster, 
then  a  bottle,  ball,  or  hoop,  to  learn  to  make  it  square 
or  round,  as  the  case  may  be,  to  train  the  hand  to 

268 


THE  ART  OF  GEORGE  INNESS 

make  the  form,  to  train  the  eye  to  see.  So  every 
student  should  begin.  The  old  way  is  the  best — to 
train  the  hand  to  make  the  things  the  student  sees. 
After  he  learns  the  forms  and  how  to  make  them  he 
is  ready  to  study  art,  and  learn  by  the  combination  of 
colors  and  lines  to  represent  the  things  he  wants  to 
interpret.  After  he  has  accomplished  this  feat  he  is 
well  equipped  to  try  in  any  way  he  can  to  express 
himself  in  art. 

No  man  has  yet  attained  a  high  mark  in  art,  in 
any  art  that  will  live,  without  having  gone  through 
the  hardest  kind  of  training.  There  is  no  short  road 
to  art.  Genius  alone  never  made  an  artist.  And 
mark  my  words,  there  will  come  a  time  when  there 
will  hardly  be  ash-barrels  enough  to  cart  away  the 
stuff  that  is  classed  as  art  to-day. 

What  would  Corot  be  without  his  graceful  line, 
his  superb  drawing?  Or  Millet  or  Rousseau  or 
Troyon  or  any  one  of  them  whose  canvases  are  bring- 
ing large  prices,  and  are  sought  after  by  those  who 
would  have  the  best?  The  man  whose  canvas  looks 
as  though  a  flock  of  crows  had  danced  across  it  may 
have  his  day.  Awards  have  been  given  for  fantastic 
daubs  of  decomposed,  misshapen,  naked  ladies  dis- 
porting amid  dust-brush  trees  and  gobs  of  gaudy 
paint  and  pools  of  slime,  reflecting  cotton-batting 
clouds,  and  chimneys  all  askew,  and  flat-iron  buildings 

271 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

and  metropolitan  skyscrapers  that  lean  like  Pisa's 
tower. 

The  same  thing  exists  in  all  the  arts,  in  literature, 
in  drama,  and  in  music.  For  God's  sake!  let  us 
awake  from  this  hideous  nightmare  and  come  back  to 
truth  and  purity  and  sense! 

Some  men  have  accused  Inness  of  lack  of  technic 
and  of  early  training  in  his  art ;  that  he  did  not  make 
of  himself  as  good  a  craftsman  as  others  might  have 
made  of  him ;  that  he  was  never  thoroughly  grounded 
in  the  grammar  of  painting,  with  a  none  too  certain 
hand;  sketchy,  faulty  drawing,  scratchy,  glazy, 
scrubby,  tortured  in  the  attempt  to  get  effects;  dots 
for  cows  and  other  figures,  careless  spots  that  take 
no  form,  etc.  Take  for  instance  this  criticism,  which 
appeared  in  the  New  York  "Evening  Post,"  January 
5,  1895,  which  was  otherwise  complimentary: 

He  had  the  mind  of  a  Romanticist,  keen  in  its  artistic 
perceptions,  and  very  susceptible  to  emotional  impression, 
but  capricious,  headlong,  impulsive,  prone  to  extravagance 
and  given  to  chimerical  theories.  It  lacked  in  repose  and 
it  lacked  in  tenacity.  Seeking  for  truth,  it  too  often  ran 
hopelessly  to  error,  through  pursuit  of  fancy  and  lack  of 
definite  aim. 

Perhaps  some  of  his  failure  to  realize  fully  his  ideal  was 
due  to  a  faulty  hand.  He  never  received  a  thorough  tech- 
nical training.  His  was  not  a  nature  that  could  or  would 
submit  to  any  working  out  of  a  formula  but  his  own,  and 
so  he  soon  abandoned  masters.    He  was  not,  however,  a 

272 


THE  ART  OF  GEORGE  INNESS 


provincial  or  ill-educated  painter,  by  any  means.  The  art 
of  the  world  was  better  known  to  him  than  to  many  Pari- 
sians. He  traveled  much  and  knew  the  methods  of  others 
quite  well.  .  .  . 

Not  even  Rousseau  and  the  Fontainebleau  painters  could 
make  him  pay  the  compliment  of  imitation,  or  assimilation. 
He  followed  no  one.  A  self-reliant  man,  he  was,  as  regards 
his  technic,  a  self-made  man,  and  as  is  usually  the  case,  he 
did  not  make  of  himself  so  good  a  craftsman  as  others  might 
have  made  of  him.  He  was  never  thoroughly  grounded  in 
the  grammar  of  painting,  and  sometimes  his  drawing  will 
not  parse,  nor  the  lighting  of  his  foregrounds  agree  in  gender, 
number  and  person  with  the  lighting  of  his  backgrounds. 
Some  painters  have  a  way  of  complaining  that  their  technic 
bothers  them,  which  to  their  hearers  means  only  that  they 
do  not  see  truly;  but  that  was  not  the  case  with  Inness. 
He  saw  truly  enough,  but  failing  to  reach  his  aim  at  the 
first  dash  he  doubted  himself,  took  another  course,  and  even- 
tually encountered  the  same  difficulty — the  inability  to  real- 
ize conception. 

Part  of  this  failure  was  due,  as  we  have  said,  to  a  not 
too  certain  hand.  The  eye  saw  clearly  enough,  as  witness 
the  fine  sun  effect  of  the  "Gleaners,"  but  he  never  carried  the 
picture  to  completion.  The  technical  problem  was  too  much 
for  him.  Many  of  the  pictures  in  this  collection  bear  wit- 
ness to  the  technical  difficulties  he  met  with.  They  are  said 
to  be  sketches,  but  there  is  hardly  a  free  first  sketch  in  the 
gallery.  They  are  pictures  kneaded,  thumbed,  scraped, 
glazed,  tortured  in  the  attempt  to  get  effects.  And  this 
uncertainty  of  hand  grew  upon  him  as  he  advanced  in  years. 
His  early  pictures  are  sharp  and  hard  in  outline,  but  they 
are  struck  off  easily.  In  his  later  works,  notably  "The 
Beeches,"  "The  Coming  Storm,"  and  the  "Red  Oaks"  he  is 

273 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

labored,  mealy  in  texture  and  thoroughly  weary  of  his  task. 
Yet  we  are  disposed  to  unsay  our  words  when  we  meet  with 
the  "Passing  Storm"  of  the  Halsted  Collection.  Here  it 
looks  as  though  a  master  hand  with  great  power  had  drawn 
the  old  willow  and  put  in  the  stormy  sky  with  a  sure,  swift 
touch.  The  picture  is  as  strong  as  though  done  freely 
under  first  inspiration. 

There  has  been  so  much  extravagant  talk  about  Inness 
since  his  death  that  it  seems  necessary  for  some  one  to 
point  out  his  limitations,  but  we  would  not  be  understood 
as  saying  he  was  all  limitation.  On  the  contrary  he  accom- 
plished much,  and  no  landscape-painter  in  the  history  of 
American  art  holds  higher  rank.  With  more  mental  balance 
and  a  surer  technic  he  would  have  been  the  greatest  land- 
scape-painter of  any  time  or  people.  His  limitations  de- 
nied him  that  rank,  but  still  left  him  among  the  great  ones. 
He  was  an  extremely  sensitive  and  impressionable  organiza- 
tion, a  man  of  great  originality,  and  his  collected  pictures 
show  that  he  was  versatile  and  possessed  of  many  resources. 
He  was  always  recording  his  impression,  using  facts  about 
him,  merely  as  pegs  to  hang  it  upon,  never  given  to  detail, 
and  always  wrapped  up  in  the  sentiment  of  light,  color  and 
atmosphere.  These  he  in  many  canvases  displayed  with  con- 
vincing power,  and  occasionally  he  grasped  the  strength  of 
landscape  in  a  way  that  would  have  put  Rousseau  to  his 
mettle  in  equaling.  There  was  never  anything  small  or  petty 
about  either  his  conception  or  execution.  His  vision  was 
broad,  and  all  his  life  he  was  striving  for  the  ensemble  of 
earth,  air,  sky  and  light.  He  knew  they  were  a  unit  and 
could  figure  it  out  cleverly  with  geometrical  figures,  and  it 
was  his  great  aim  to  demonstrate  it  in  art.  He  never  did 
demonstrate  it  to  his  own  satisfaction,  but  he  certainly 
made  his  aim  intelligible  to  many  people,  and  to  many  more 

274. 


THE  ART  OF  GEORGE  INNESS 

gave  an  idea  of  the  majesty  of  creation  which  they  never 
could  grasp  from  nature  itself.  Such  achievement  is  not 
failure,  but  success — great  success. 

Now,  in  all  these  seeming  "limitations"  which  are 
cited  in  the  above  article  lay  Inness's  power,  a  certain 
power  which  was  never  possessed  by  any  other  artist ; 
for  it  was  the  very  working  out  of  his  own  training, 
his  indefatigable  search  for  truth,  the  assiduous  study 
of  different  methods  and  craftsmanship,  that  gave 
him  his  power  of  technic.  And  as  for  craftsmanship 
and  certainty  of  hand,  he  surpassed  them  all,  as  many 
a  canvas  testifies,  where  pigment  is  put  on  with  a 
firmness  and  precision  that  might  well  be  envied  by 
the  greatest  of  the  craftsmen.  All  this  skill  of  technic 
he  had,  but  he  was  ever  trying  to  disguise  the  crafts- 
manship and  show  you  nature,  mysterious,  suggestive, 
lights  and  shades  that  come  and  go,  clouds  that  move 
and  take  on  ever-changing  shapes.  It  was  through 
this  great  knowledge  of  the  grammar  of  art  that  he  is 
able  to  hold  the  attention  of  all  who  look  into  his  pic- 
tures, and  to  show  you  new  things  at  every  glance. 
As  the  eye  wanders  over  the  canvas  you  discover 
things  you  did  not  see  before:  some  moving  form,  a 
figure  emerging  from  beneath  the  trees,  a  puff  of 
smoke  or  vapor  rising  from  behind  the  distant  hills. 
With  these  things  he  leads  your  fancy  on  and  makes 
you  forget  that  it  is  paint  and  canvas  before  you. 

275 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

The  thought  of  technic  is  lost  in  the  larger  emotion  of 
the  grandeur  of  nature. 

How  often  have  you,  while  wandering  through  a 
wood,  seen  forms  that  look  like  things  you  know. 
Sometimes  you  think  it  is  a  man  strolling  through 
the  far-away  field,  to  find  later  that  it  is  only  a  with- 
ered stump  or  clump  of  grass;  or  perhaps  a  spot  of 
light  that  speaks  of  sparkling  water  where  you  may 
slake  your  thirst  proves  to  be,  on  near  approach, 
nothing  but  a  whitened  rock  that  is  peeping  from  the 
underbrush.  Nature  is  full  of  sounds  and  forms  that 
awaken  the  imagination  and  fill  the  earth  with  vi- 
brancy and  with  life.  It  is  this  that  Inness  gives  you 
in  his  canvases.  He  gives  you  nature  with  all  her 
subtlety. 

He  never  tried  to  make  a  skilful  work  of  art.  He 
was  so  skilful  that  he  could  disguise  that  very  skill, 
so  that  he  almost  attained  his  great  ambition  to  paint 
a  picture  without  paint.  And  I  should  like  to  quote 
here  Mr.  Victor  Harris,  who  owns  the  "Moonrise." 
When  asked  what  name  a  picture  had,  he  said: 

"Inness  pictures  need  no  names;  they  all  speak 
nature."  This  canvas,  "Moonrise,"  is  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  things  my  father  ever  did.  In  subtlety  of 
tone  and  richness  of  quality  it  is  surpassed  by  none. 

I  have  never  known  a  picture  that  can  be  grasped 
at  one  glance,  that  is  startling  and  attracts  the  eye 

276 


THE  ART  OF  GEORGE  INNESS 

by  its  vigorous  painting  and  striking  form  alone,  that 
carries,  as  some  would  express  it,  to  satisfy  me.  A 
work  of  art  must  have  subtlety  of  tone  and  a  certain 
amount  of  mystery  that  can  never  be  seen  at  first 
glance.  It  must  be  looked  at  a  long  time  before  its 
subtle  tones  can  be  grasped;  and  if  it  is  great,  it 
grows  upon  you,  and  the  longer  you  look,  the  more 
you  see,  and  to  describe  it  is  almost  impossible,  be- 
cause you  never  see  it  twice  alike.  It  changes  with 
your  mood.  It  is  a  thing  to  live  with.  You  study 
it,  you  learn  to  see  the  soul  of  it.  It  is  like  a  face 
that  becomes  beautiful  because  you  have  learned  to 
know  and  love  the  soul  behind  it.  When  a  picture 
gives  you  this  effect,  it  is  great  art.  This  is  the  great- 
ness of  Inness. 

One  night  while  in  Chicago  I  was  dining  at  the 
home  of  my  friend  Ralph  Cudney,  and  we  drifted 
into  the  subject  of  art.  We  mentioned  the  simplicity 
of  nature  found  in  Inness  canvases. 

"Yes,"  said  Cudney,  "they  always  give  me  the  feel- 
ing of  nature.  They  seem  to  take  me  back  to  my 
childhood,  which  was  spent  in  the  woods  of  the 
Schawangunk  Mountains.  They  are  not  photographs 
of  trunks  of  trees  and  rocks  and  things,  but  just  out- 
of-doors.  I  feel  that  I  am  home  again  on  the  old 
farm,  where  I  drove  the  cows,  and  when  tired  after 
work  I  sit  down  here  and  rest  beside  my  Innesses. 

277 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

I  have  six  of  them.  Which  one  I  like  the  best  I 
cannot  say,  sometimes  it  is  this  one,  sometimes  that; 
but  they  all  tell  the  sweet  story  of  the  woods  and 
fields. 

"In  this  one,  'Twilight,'  I  feel  as  though  I,  and 
not  the  girl  on  the  canvas,  am  going  for  the  cows, 
crossing  that  log  that  spans  the  brook.  Yes,  there 
is  something  in  these  canvases  of  Inness  that  fills  me 
with  a  sense  of  rest." 

The  whole  story  of  the  genius  and  the  mission  of 
Inness  seems  to  me  to  be  summed  up  in  a  little  story 
told  to  me  by  Mr.  Thomas  B.  Clarke. 

"There  was  a  time,"  said  Mr.  Clarke,  "when  every- 
thing in  life  seemed  lost  to  me.  All  the  sunshine  was 
gone,  and  the  weight  of  sorrow  was  heavy  on  my 
heart.  One  whom  I  loved  dearly  had  been  suddenly 
stricken  and  taken  from  me,  and  with  her  going  went 
all  the  gladness  of  life.  Your  father  had  often  talked 
to  me  of  his  beliefs  and  of  the  life  beyond,  and  of 
the  message  he  was  trying  to  send  out  in  his  pictures 
but  I  never  understood. 

"In  the  grief  that  was  almost  too  heavy  to  bear  I 
wandered  about  the  house  like  a  lost  soul.  I  was  in- 
consolable. I  happened  to  glance  up  at  a  little  In- 
ness which  I  owned  and  always  loved,  'A  Gray,  Low- 
ery  Day,'  and  like  a  burst  of  life  your  father's  mes- 
sage of  hope  and  eternity  came  over  me.    He  spoke 

278 


THE  ART  OF  GEORGE  INNESS 

through  that  little  canvas,  and  my  soul  understood 
what  my  mind  had  not.  I  was  a  different  man  from 
that  hour.  It  was  the  only  thing  that  could  console 
me." 

If  that  picture  had  been  the  only  one  Inness  ever 
painted,  his  life  would  have  been  worth  while  and 
his  destiny  fulfilled;  but  I  believe  that  every  living 
picture  is  giving  out  the  same  message,  and  that  In- 
ness lives  forever,  speaking  to  us  in  his  canvases  and 
fulfilling  that  immortal  destiny  which  was  the  passion 
of  his  life. 

It  is  pleasant  to  travel  with  Inness  on  a  hot,  sultry 
day,  to  sit  beside  the  cooling  brook,  and  watch  the 
fallen  leaf  drift  sluggishly  by,  and  wonder  how  it 
will  feel  when  it  reaches  the  mill-dam  and  is  hurled 
over  the  brink  with  a  dash  that  crumples  it  up  in  a 
smother  of  foam,  and  finally  casts  it  well  out  into  the 
placid  pond,  to  sit  and  swelter  in  the  sun  until  the 
breeze  springs  up  from  that  cloud  which  is  lying  on 
the  horizon  and  comes  to  waft  it  to  the  shore,  to  make 
a  bed  for  a  dragon-fly  or  some  lazy  tadpole,  as  we 
can  so  easily  do  in  his  landscapes. 

Or  take  another  canvas,  with  its  cumulus-clouds, 
its  thunder-heads  lying  low  behind  the  distant  hills. 
You  wonder  if  that  load  of  hay  drawn  by  its  lumber- 
ing oxen  will  reach  the  red  barn  in  the  valley  before 
the  storm  breaks  upon  them. 

281 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

Then  the  one  with  rushing  clouds  and  blackened 
landscape.  A  light  appears  in  the  west,  a  little  patch 
of  blue.  It  is  going  to  clear,  and  you  want  to  thrust 
out  the  back  of  your  hand  to  see  if  it  is  still  raining 
before  venturing  out  of  the  barn  where  you  have 
taken  refuge. 

And  then  you  travel  with  him  to  a  lonely  dell,  to 
sit  on  a  rock  and  watch  the  twilight  fade  behind  the 
trees  and  know  the  day  is  done.  It  makes  you  think 
of  what  it  carries  of  the  past  and  to  form  some  resolu- 
tion for  the  morrow.  All  these  things  the  Inness 
pictures  give  in  an  amazing  degree.  This  is  their 
mission — to  send  out  a  message  of  truth.  George 
Inness  tells  a  story  in  every  canvas,  and  always  tells 
a  story  of  love,  hope,  and  peace. 

I  attach  little  importance  to  the  influence  that  for- 
eign travel  had  on  the  art  of  Inness.  How  would  he 
have  developed  without  this  travel?  Of  course  we 
are  all  influenced  more  or  less  by  what  we  see  in 
others,  their  methods  of  painting,  the  way  they  use 
the  brush  or  palette-knife  or  thumb.  Volon  painted 
fish  and  kettles  with  his  thumb,  and  got  some  pleas- 
ing tones.  The  Barbison  painters  glazed  and  got 
transparent  color.  Cazan  mixed  a  lot  of  tones  on  his 
palette  with  some  such  color  as  umber  as  a  base.  This 
gave  him  soft,  velvety  tones,  which  enveloped  his 
whole  picture  and  gave  the  same  texture  to  sky, 


THE  ART  OF  GEORGE  INNESS 

houses,  trees,  water,  and  rocks.  It  is  all  velvet,  and 
very  sweet  and  mushy.  Now,  all  these  tricks  are  of 
value,  and  a  student  would  naturally  adopt  one  or 
the  other  that  would  give  him  the  texture  he  pre- 
ferred. Probably  Inness  found  in  the  Rarbison 
painters  a  method  that  he  liked.  That  he  found 
among  the  Frenchmen  a  broader  way  of  painting, 
that  gave  a  bigger  sense  of  nature,  there  is  no  doubt, 
but  had  he  not  had  these  advantages  would  his  later 
development  have  been  different?  I  think  not,  for 
from  the  very  start  he  strove  to  overthrow  the  old 
traditions,  and  tried  to  paint  the  landscape  as  he 
saw  and  felt  it,  and  he  would  have  arrived  at  the  same 
result,  for  he  surpassed  them  all  in  breadth  and  truth 
of  nature.  He  always  was  George  Inness  and  al- 
ways painted  Inness,  and  where  he  best  succeeded 
was  here  in  the  American  landscape  that  he  loved. 
The  landscapes  that  he  painted  while  abroad  never 
reached  the  grandeur  and  the  beauty  of  the  things 
he  did  at  home.  And  the  pictures  that  he  painted  at 
three-score  years  and  nine  were  the  greatest  of  them 
all.  We  have  produced  many  painters  and  some 
great  ones,  but  never  one  who  takes  one  out  to  nature 
in  all  its  moods  and  makes  him  feel  her  very  breath 
as  Inness  does. 

His  pictures  are  always  beautifully  composed,  and 
with  a  thorough  balance  and  completeness.    As  I 

283 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

have  said  before,  one  can  always  look  into  an  Inness 
picture.  It  is  complete  in  every  part,  so  that  the 
eye  travels  from  one  object  to  another  without  effort, 
and  everything  is  enveloped  and  held  within  the 
vision.  Many  paintings  are  so  faulty  in  perspective 
and  drawing  that  it  is  impossible  to  see  both  ends  of 
the  canvas  at  the  same  time,  no  matter  how  small  it 
may  be.  This  fault  is  never  found  in  Inness.  He 
paints  only  what  the  eye  can  take  in  in  one  vision. 

Cut  a  hole  in  a  piece  of  paper,  say  two  by  three 
inches,  then  measure  diagonally  across  it  from  corner 
to  corner,  the  distance  being  about  three  and  a  half 
inches.  Multiply  this  by  three,  and  the  result  is  ten 
and  a  half  inches.  Now  hold  the  paper  ten  and  a 
half  inches  from  the  eye,  and  whatever  can  be  seen 
through  the  opening  can  be  grasped  in  one  vision. 
Hold  it  closer  to  the  eye,  and  it  will  be  necessary  to 
shift  the  eye  to  see  all  that  is  contained  within  the 
opening.  My  father  held  invariably  to  this  mathe- 
matical exactness  which  gives  a  perfect  harmony  of 
vision. 

Let  us  take  the  canvas  entitled  "Under  the  Green- 
wood" from  the  point  of  view  of  composition. 
It  is  an  upright  and  represents  a  wooded  hillside, 
with  sheep  and  a  boy  in  it.  Now,  in  the  first  place 
my  father  has  painted  a  large  oak  tree  exactly  in 

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UNDER  THE  GREENWOOD 


THE  ART  OF  GEORGE  INNESS 

the  middle  of  the  picture.  This  makes  a  very  bad 
composition  and  gives  a  sense  of  unbalance;  so  to 
counteract  this,  he  puts  a  nearer  tree  to  the  left  of  it 
and  leans  it  away  from  the  oak.  This  acts  as  a  bal- 
ance and  gives  a  harmony  of  line.  He  then  puts 
the  figure  of  a  boy  in  the  right-hand  foreground  to 
make  another  balance,  and  to  relieve  the  foreground 
of  monotony.  Then  he  puts  a  strong  light  on  the 
trunk  of  the  oak,  and  to  balance  the  light  he  repeats 
it  on  the  leaning  tree.  Then  he  carries  the  light  to 
the  upper  right-hand  corner  of  the  picture  in  the 
form  of  a  white  cloud.  Now  he  has  three  lights  in  a 
row.  This  is  awkward,  and  stops  abruptly;  so  he 
puts  a  light  to  the  right  of  the  picture,  which  takes 
the  form  of  a  path.  This  gives  him  a  harmony  of 
line  and  a  graceful  play  of  light.  But  he  finds  the 
boy  in  the  foreground  out  of  place  and  too  abrupt. 
He  does  not  want  to  take  it  out,  for  it  gives  interest 
to  the  foreground;  so  he  puts  a  dark  sheep  between 
the  boy  and  the  oak,  which  makes  another  balance. 
But  he  is  not  yet  quite  satisfied.  There  is  too  much  of 
a  jump  from  the  dark  sheep  to  the  light  on  the  oak, 
and  there  is  not  enough  incident;  so  he  paints  in  a 
group  of  sheep  in  light  near  the  trunk  and  silhou- 
ettes the  dark  sheep  against  a  light  strip  of  middle 
distance.    Then,  to  give  a  dramatic  power  to  the 

287 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

whole,  he  paints  a  black  shadow  in  the  background. 
But  now  he  finds  a  lack  of  interest  at  the  left  of  the 
leaning  tree,  and  puts  in  another  sheep.  The  com- 
position is  now  complete,  and  as  he  would  express 
it,  "needs  only  a  little  tickling  up  here  and  there,  and 
we  have  a  perfect  harmony None  of  these  spots 
of  light  and  lines  and  figures  are  put  in  haphazard. 
They  have  each  and  all  been  thought  out  to  give  ex- 
pression to  the  story  he  wished  to  tell  and  the  whole 
composition,  though  elaborate,  is  within  the  field  of 
vision. 

I  have  cited  examples  enough  of  composition,  color, 
tone,  and  medium  to  show  just  how  he  painted;  so 
now  dropping  technic,  let 's  take  a  stroll  among  some 
Inness  canvases,  and  see  him  only  in  his  different 
moods. 

Here  is  a  peaceful  valley,  with  here  and  there  a 
clump  of  elms  the  tops  of  which  are  tipped  with  light 
from  rays  of  the  sun,  which  dips  below  the  hills  be- 
hind you.  A  field  of  golden  grain  glistens  with  the 
drops  of  rain  that  still  cling  to  it.  All  is  quiet  in  the 
grain-field  here  below  that  only  a  moment  since  was 
writhing  in  the  tempest  that  is  rushing  overhead.  It 
drives  great  clouds  before  it,  which  rush  and  tumble, 
swooping  now  and  then  to  dash  themselves  against 
a  mountain-top,  and  then  to  rise  again,  to  be  envel- 
oped in  a  ray  of  light  that  turns  them  into  molten 

288 


* 


THE  ART  OF  GEORGE  INNESS 

gold.  As  they  rush  along,  the  sign  of  promise  is  dis- 
closed, and  all 's  at  rest  again,  and  birds  sing  out  their 
praises  to  the  sun. 

And  now  let 's  stroll  with  Inness  through  this  low 
marshland.  It 's  all  in  silver  gray,  but  as  we  look 
we  see  the  sky  is  flecked  with  opalescent  light  sifting 
through  blackened  smoke,  which  belches  from  the 
distant  chimney  top.  Now  it  is  lighted  by  the  sun, 
which  has  changed  that  belt  of  saw-grass  to  a  mat 
of  yellow  gold.  And  see  that  little  cloud  that 's  aris- 
ing just  beyond.  It  grows,  and  changes  into  in- 
digo, and  on  its  edge  a  rainbow  rests.  Now  a  shadow 
throws  a  blanket  on  the  ground  that  lends  intense- 
ness  to  the  scene  and  glorifies  the  sign  of  promise 
beyond. 

Now  here  we  have  a  stretch  of  dark-blue  sea,  the 
distant  line  of  which  is  lost  in  darkened  vapor,  from 
out  of  which  there  peeps  a  blood-red  sun.  But  up 
above  the  cloud  there  shines  the  golden  glory  of  the 
west,  which  studs  the  sand  with  diamonds  at  our  feet. 

And  now  see  a  maddened,  rushing  sky  that  is  all 
ablaze,  as  though  the  whole  world  were  aflame,  and 
from  beyond  a  locomotive  pours  out  smoke  as  black 
as  night,  and  gives  the  feeling  that  something  fear- 
some is  about. 

And  here,  in  this  little  one,  a  placid  brook  reflects 
a  mellow  twilight  sky,  which  silhouettes  the  figure  of 

289 


LIFE,  ART,  AND  LETTERS 

a  boy,  who  casts  a  stone  to  frighten  the  bird  that  is 
rising  from  the  marsh. 

Once  more,  view  the  whirling,  swirling  clouds, 
which  almost  touch  the  earth  in  their  mad  race  across 
the  plain  strewn  with  leaves  and  broken  branches  from 
the  trees.  A  flock  of  crows  are  drifting  with  the  gale, 
and  fleck  the  scene  with  spots  of  black  and  fear. 

Before  we  turn  away,  let 's  cross  this  field  that  is 
bathed  with  soft,  gray,  mellow  light  that  gives  a 
sense  of  stillness,  not  of  the  grave,  but  of  the  kind 
that  follows  some  great  strain  of  music  that  has  died 
away,  and  left  a  hush  of  awe,  as  through  the  limpid 
gray  we  see  a  mellow  disk.  It  is  the  harvest  moon, 
which  calls  us  to  the  wealth  of  all  the  earth,  and  brings 
us  peace  with  nature  and  with  God. 


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